To inter suspicions---the copious arrangement,
of utter devotion.
A world said to be never for,
a gift to beauty;
a gift to ambition.
A difference between who makes it,
in the pangs while drunk;
in the pangs while drowning.
To inter schisms---unforgiving frontier of the mind,
of a Grandmothers caress;
of a whores coil.
Abrupt memories wishing for sublime,
in they who adore;
in they who have yet to arrive---
Play the reel,
“so can I…”
To inter solitude---that auspicious soliloquy,
of a life well lived;
of a child’s death.
Little glimmers of what we see as fragile,
in qualities we call intangibles;
in qualities we miss out on.
Moments that become our reason to ask why,
it alone stood as a gift to Cerberus;
it alone stood as a gift to philosophy.
Something that separates,