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You ask me why, and I talk of the wounds that will not heal.
Blue velevet and white satin, now moth-eaten gray.
I gave my love Paris's silver apple.
In return I got Eve's red.
I was young then.
foolish.
immortal.
All children are immortal until they learn to die,
until I saw his life draining away like maple syrup.
Swords and guns and morality,
it doesn't matter.
it doesn't remain.
The plate techtonics of definition are constantly shifting
until all that's left
is the Yankee's musket.
is Malakai's sword.
is an elated gasp and a belated hug.
That in the end was home.
Not white satin flesh under white satin sheets.
Not the myth of love--more changeable than gods.
But simply being there.
Suffering alongside always.
Persevering past mortal breath.
Attending their funerals.
All this I present in empty explanation.
Denying love as a priest denies his passions.

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Hate is not a family value.