poetry

spearless

Scrambling ‘neath our dragons...


  I’m still scrambling ‘neath our dragons,
        Trudging o’er their hot-mouth-mess.

      Who, spearless and weak, were we?
            To think past possible:
              That fantastically improbable kiss?

                I longly pine for our innocence;
              I regret our hesitance
        Into the abyss.

  Myopically, we risked so-infinitely-less
            Than we then imagined.


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