This needs to be said, not withheld. Humankind cannot avoid truth staring in his face like winter’s bitter wind. If he touches upon coldness, the torturous frost, he’ll know he’s gone too far in the labyrinth without end, without exit or love. As the winter bares man’s likeness, his eyes begin to soften in the light; the scent, the taste, the touch, sound and flesh; rocket ships navigating truth like vultures circling providence. Heed this; steadily we’ll end our vow to one another, we’ll end our love like winter’s almanac crashing through the ground, overlooking that we’ve been here before. When found to be tall and foolish, our collusion carries the truth beneath its scrape and carts away our affection like garbage bins tipped in the wind, waste spills forth, shame steals our eyes and makes us long for tomorrow. Oh! We must moisten our lips and speak of a certainty hidden away, that which can never be extinguished, for goodness ingests our bile as our kinship sings benea
(The Weaver's Song)