What will become of me?
Of them?
Of us?
Of you who are reading this?
What will become of the blood and the bones that we hope
will last when natural beauty has faded?
What will become of love not expressed, not returned, never
seen the light of day?
And love that is, that was, that basked in the shining sun?
What will become of the ones that could not be saved?
And of the ones that were plucked from the raging seas?
The world turns and turn we do in spinning space
And turn we must upon the perilous knife-edge of choosing
