Let go of my cold, frozen, dust-eaten hands;
they cannot bear the weight of your excess, oh distant lovers.
And lost as though the truth may be
in its deep tangled roots of discretion and fear,
still us withered fools should always crowd together in the storm.
The vision of that smiling face contemplating the impossible
coheres exactly to the sense of such desires to float away.
Perfection unattained outside of the circle of our blind trust,
the crowd gathers to examine their own lack of existence.
Shoulder to shoulder, criminals and scholars, exposed in heat.
Righteous fools had stayed locked up inside
the place where one might hide such secrets;
childlike smiling spites the distance traveled without shelter.
Rotating chords would have to suffice in speaking
the most epic clash between communicating and merely hoping to.