we're sending postcards over endless miles of radio silence and harlequin smiles,
and we're putting undertones in overtures you'll never hear.
we'll write them in blood, we'll sign them in tears, we'll stamp them with what we have left.
we'll drink to our love, we'll drink to our fears, our happiness, and our health.

and we're counting syllables like heartbeats.
our breathing's as forced as our rhyme schemes.
in this cold our lips are split like infinitives
as our clouds of words defrost, derivative.
they tell us that
all you know is all you're told is all you'll say is all you'll be:
an epilogue, an afterthought in a book no one cares to read.

we are bankers and midwives with our forceps and our silk ties
and our ghosts all dressed in white.
the weight of the stars tonight is immense
so we'll hide under the cover of the future tense and pretend
everything will be alright.
we'll write until our wells are as dry
as a valley of bones waiting to come alive
and our pages are as black as our sunken eyes.

so we'll run as fast as we can go and reach as high as we can grow.
we'll rewrite all we know.
we'll learn and we'll live and we'll love and we'll give
and we'll laugh and we'll sing and we'll cry.
and the notes may shake and the earth will quake,
we'll find beauty and we'll die.
the sky will fall, the birds will call,
the trees will take root round our bones.
the fires will burn, our children will yearn,
and we'll learn we were never alone.

we are never alone.
Very nice. I would love to say more about this. Very nice. There.