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.