There are things that have begun to burn.
Save those you can while they in any part
We leave what we cannot take. We trusted
What we did not make
After all, and went ahead and claimed it –
No, we did not make love. We made,
We did. But we did not create it. God did. God
Love. So how could the creator become in any part
the created? No.
So when these things that have begun to burn
can not be salvaged
We leave them and run. We haste from the embers that become
We are followed in our turn but the scarring is
localised to a minimum. An infinitesimal organic suicide
We labour with the remnants of our burn
To plagiarise and live in reruns.
Tomorrow we make again what we did not create
And trust again what we did not make
Our memory heals enough so we replicate.