What if my girlfriend felt perfunctory
and like it was meant to be
a thousand times a thousand, that would be awful
certainty, certainly
measuring the prose to fold the flow
so small it disappears
into nothing, dull as a watchword
lesson over what, would I finally be
happy? Hell no, says the green-eyed
taxman flicking his tail and scarring
the children mentally at least, you would be bored
as fuck all useless, so praise the horizon
storm when it comes especially crushing
the sky light, forming a fiberglass
cocoon like a butterfly, evolving you
gradually infinite pacing slowly
conversation masks abound, revealing that
we were meant to be regardless
unavoidable futures, dead end craving
a conclusion of the heart, roasting in the sun
salutatorian shimmer, so sharply it bites
off the end, leaving a single sculpture
of the two of us together, fighting the predetermined
fate written on leaves of grass
tornado turning, we are invention of art
constructing fate, desire incarnated beautifully
fragile fortunes favor, made only of our
own effort, deciding what was meant.