Unwandered path

More than silence,
less than foolishness.

What lead us here,
to this exact moment?

More than alone,
less than together.

Does this qualify poetics?
Does it pull strings
you never felt?
No, for emotion
does not come from beat
(sorry, percussion).
It comes from
mad scramblings,
etchings in the wall,
not out of suffering,
but love.
Those words
bring tears to his eyes,
for they are painful.
Painful enough to die for?
Nay, for he survived
scrawling it out,
through think and thin.
Not everything needs
the ultimate price.
The effort is what's due.
And the effort was worth it,
in his eyes.

More than moving,
less than almighty.

She watches the city,
high from her perch.
She invited me up,
and taught me to draw my wings.
But this brief meeting
proved to be too little time
to learn to fly.
Nonetheless, she described
beauty she had sought,
and wished onto me the best
in finding my view.
I could see the length of her road,
the bricks that held her from flight,
but could never stop her desires,
nor her work.
Sacrifice was not in vain,
for what she makes shinew,
is blessed with time
she never wasted,
was molded by
a being
who could never be discouraged.

More than human,
less than ruthless.

These were never the words
I had imagined,
starting these few verses.
But visions have ways of fitting.
These two beings
were more than something
created between suns.
as I snapped from their view,
I wondered if this was
something new
in the circle of repeats.
What an odd collection.
The painless engraver,
the angel who carries her wings,
and a wild, road-lusting dreamer.

More than imperfect,
less than permanent.

And equally absolute.