there are two, aren’t there,
who bring an end to mischief
and place chaos in the eye of the beholder;
he saw her bloom like the bloom of the tree of roses,
but she says every sunrise must fall,
and makes the tides crash, hum and moan.
and so the young prince of the skies,
would pout with most honest contempt
at what the world merely called wrong.
then whoever came next,
he’s to blame for the rhythm of a system and the
coldness of the wind across your brow.