The little girl was playing at the edge of the garden. She had decided, on this warm summer's afternoon, that she was going to be an archaeologist. Equipped with her beach bucket, a little plastic
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two celestial planets, of great burning mass, depend on each other's presence, a perfect coexistence
both awaken from a deep, deep seamlessly sleepless sleep, the lashes flutter, butterfly wings in the flowing wind
the gaze of the eyes, cross paths, and stare at each other, the fire continues to burn full of wrath
many countless blink, and half of that is a wink, find themselves alone together
our stories hero, and one of a blurred frantic panic possessing an unknown face,
hid in our hero's warm and inviting embrace, as the moth surround the blue glowing light,
each other's keep, they swear they'll never leave, until their buried six feet deep, cold and dead
but before what grows truly organic, and is never chased, true and real love, call it the vine of grace
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