Fate’s Crumbling Grip

Slipping,
slipping, 
like rain 
through shingles, 
and shuddering, 
falling in between the slats, 
pecking at the window glass, 
asking to come in, 
to walk around, 
to stay awhile. 
“Welcome,” I say, 
and suddenly 
lines are undrawn 
and stars become uncrossed 
so that lovers might love 
in spite of the rules written 
in the sky 
on long forgotten nights 
where pieces fit 
instead of faltering before
the misery of fate,

But fate wears the face of
everything we know
and all those we could,
would,
and ever have touched,
so possibility only genuinely
resides where passion lives,
where flames put out the 
bleak cold that exists in
or outside of the glass houses
we all build for our minds
and hearts,
between the spaces that hinder us
from finding our true peace,
and moments that beg us to 
collapse under the sheer pressure
of being alive

The pieces of those faces,
those unforgotton moments
where we blazed
instead of burned out,
they rise,
rise,
climb up
until the air is thin
and perspective is not,
and we can turn outside
the inside thoughts
tethering us,
and instead,
show us the possibility
of predestination.

***

This is a collaborative piece by me and Christopher Rupley. We have done many if these collaborations, but I think this one might be my favorite. Please check out his blog and show him some love.

~Patience

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