To be certain of this, I must define fate and its parameters
and how it urges to be nostalgic when hope deserts the mind.
I must speak plainly. I must converge and not distort
this figurative cosmopolitan sense of a seven day reversal
of all that I've tried to combine.
Lux, veritas, old photos pin-pricked upon my walls,
remembrance is my flaw, heliocentric because comfort
will never be found beneath this moon.
By rote and mnemonics, I is the only certainty
to believe in. Compassion and virtue
are wild creatures too spread out
Upon this planet to ever come together
to a mildly satisfactory conclusion.