Widening Gyre

Tempest tossed bridges.
Broken spire whips, wails in distressed moonlight.
Desperately reaching to grasp a comforting tale.
Classic truths:
At best our world belongs to love.
Lovers in tranquil sky lit towers
supping on elegance, air resplendent
of cooing affection.
Hope, their fluttery cygnet, fusses
adorably knocking over vased roses,
antique pedestals, nagging arguments.
Masks bleed outward
Simplify each encounter, every whisper.
Happy monarch, to have
weavers master slavish perfection, 
sew shiny reflection
into every scene.
Stone face forward, above deep currents,
dangerous intrigue.
Chill song, those now forsaken
still weep of violence long ago.
Show your brave masks,
painted projections,
pictograph essence
inspired, iridescent,
protection within which to freely
scream as silence.
Harsh chemistry indelicately
nibbles at connective core.
More knaves of war than mere cynicism 
hail belief in unmendable foundations.
If we should ever meet
at dawn,
or as the evening melts into the night,
or in the clouded-over noon day Sun,
if we should chance encounter,
discover interlocking smiles,
discuss how weary miles and moments
carry us and now cross,
if for brief meeting, distracted from our loss
of time, of place, or other faces once our lives,
if we should meet to dine on meat and wine
or otherwise,
may our meeting produce music of muses
serendipitously combined.
Searching infinite skies for eternity.
Opening upward, onward, out of words.
Yet still bound.
Sentience of form persists.
Feel the glory,
the honor,
the fear
over eons emerge
as bliss.

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