Tragedy, with company.

The dissolution

I watch with diseased pleasure

that burns and spreads and folds in on a promise

you made me 800 years ago-

the last words to come straining from the split lips

of a dignified man.

And the last promise you would ever make,

aware at last of what bound you-

that i would no longer be content to suffer fools,

that we've fallen together like angels fall- blind and burning,

with the locomotive power to rip the color white from snow.

I believe your soul's response knows mine

and courts it to tragedy, for company.