A considering.
A consolidating.
A commemorating.
A conquering.
I began yesterday, in the trees filled with mist;
you began with me, in the solace that resists
fine, undefined temptation,
illogical reverie;
the chance to be stricken from the record.
The chance to say it was me.
Wasn’t it you who said, once
that we were alone?
Wasn’t it you who said, twice
that a house is not a home?
Three times, I thought I said
that I do not want any kind of throne.
Forthright and furthermore,
this has gone on too far.
For years and years and years,
there has never been anyone so bizarrely
fickle.
So monstrously maudlin.
So marvellously maverick;
so impossibly attuned within.
I wonder what else has still yet to begin.