a dig into the holy heightened takes lead and only until the wrought iron clangs shut do we find a will to be wanted a won’t for the gods.
oh how the mighty fall.
oh how the classless are benign to their fiddler’s wishes.
a shrivel with a bow you know not with a will to be wished upon stars you see twinkling.  they shudder and gasp at the world we inhabit and yet altogether, they form some sort of pagan cookbook with which we devise meals from their pages, taking aim at their wistless and their want to not be striving very far…
take it from me, dear people of this world: they’re only there to keep you warm.  only there to make sure of the scorn.  only there to be made into something else. 
and so we gaze to the heavens and ignore our surroundings even though they surround us.  they speak through us.  and only when we take notice do our silences abound.
and so be quiet, dear lovers of the topped begotten….take hold of your brethren and don’t be made foolish upon the light they keep.  that light shines as such and we nod to the men and women we cannot know and yet know fully well.
they are more beautiful with each passing moment for their moments all misunderstood.
and they will grow more beautiful as we misunderstand.
so please, please…
take hold of their hands.