I Was Supposed to Write This

I was supposed to write a history of the old world

and expose the selfish ones who use their best kept love for

evil against the good little witches of childhood, but

it made no sense to me to go after them in that obvious a way. They still 

have to die in their own arms. I was given the finest 

words to a poem in a dream last night, but I had to

retire those harsh things out of compassion for the poor haters

who hurt so badly inside that they can no longer see another way

to be touched other than to own everything.I mean I certainly

don't value the harm they've caused, but I've made enough harm

myself through my art's single-mindedness to sink a hundred

paper boats with a barrage of carelessly thrown beads and flung away pebbles.There's

no excuse for it. I'd rather kiss you deeply and mean it. That's

way more important to the stars I know than growing young again

by any means necessary under another disappointing race to the moon's basement,

if you ask me, and if it isn't I don't care. There are

tiny miraculous white flowers you haven't even begun to 

listen to yet that grow in wide open spaces that are

already becoming fogged mirages because of you. Do we really have

the spare time to go after the ones who are coming after

us anyway? What will we meet them with? I've always smiled

at the knowledge that their fate is sealed. Your face in my hands

is a lot more fulfilling. How many more ways can I break

this to you? I don't care if they read my poems in school. I care

that my poems talk about the soft skies of your eyes over

and over again. It's never enough. That's a truer

truth than all the warning bells about growing monsters and war.

Magic is under review, but I believe your song.