When You Lose Your Pattern, You Have to Make One.

Dumped her to see how it would feel.

Just to bleed her, seed her, preternaturally lined-

Flip of the coin for that moment in time,

When hope pops unbidden 

Kubla Khanning to mind.

You cannot know until in its singular arc,

The choice becomes a thing to be made

For you

and the proof of the mark

reeks now of Moirai's foray into bones

The gamble of which it frames,

now in loaming,

foaming sea of the choice

gloried inscrutableness of the hand

that be writing but not in Sanskrit or English but in smells

Not of this dimension or land

but the slow of the arc

decision in tow-

The upward rappel so we can see where to go,

but not whose holding us

nor why we must go

Belief be the portent but never the mold

If time is fabrication, 

Ill have mine to go.

But perhaps the tossed up coin

In hopes for relief was answered by the inner man's cry,

that hope is a thief, 

Imagination is the Divine that separates

the meat from the bone, 

the spirit and soul, 

the dead from just gone.