I would be cunning if I were to say,
“I care not for the mem’ries of our youth,
What came to pass, the fires of yesterday
Do not disturb my slumb’ring heart.” In truth
It’s oft awake until the spark of dawn
Ignites the sky, until the eastern welkin
Is set ablaze with ardent hues that spawn
Yet further reminiscing. But mistaken
You’d be, my love, should you presume that I
Dwell on the flaming past, for we’ve been blessed
With here and now; nor would I ever try
To keep the sun from falling in the west:
Together we shall watch the ancient scars
Burn down to ashes strewn amidst the stars.
Live for the Love of it,
Make a turn.