At power’s center should be inexplicable softness.
We remember to parse the themes of romance
Novels; their heat, a buffer against tragic coldness.
To touch firmament touches what is grandiose, a fury
Held inside, a wish to believe the origins of stone
Vanquishes frilly myths and obvious flaws,
As thin as the air in the regions of faith, it’s gorgeous
Where the shape of trees stop short of supernatural
Placement, covered by the whiteness of strange purity.
We breathe, then doubt the sense of mortality, not
Considering dangers; the obliqueness of towering delusions.
Today there are few delusions. If there are any
We recognize it as frigidity gone awry, as ice
Around the areas which hearts occupy, the
Cavity that seems defenseless against the storm,
Unable to peer through the white-out which
Settles on peaks at the end of deathless roads.