What We Have Wrought

July 12, 2013
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Outside's the night and coldest universe
And apathetic, grinning, cheesy disk.
But we pretend it's but the two of us,
To moonlight fantasies our minds we whisk.
That lamppost dying dim at summer dusk
Cannot be likened to the sun of day,
And that tree's branches, just too brutish, brusque
To our skyward gaze were in the way.
And yet that hopeless beacon brought me joy
Of seeing stellar you in starless light,
And those beleafed intruders, though not coy,
Did drive us thence, away from cold and night.
And though perfection can't yet be but sought,
It is perfection near what we have wrought.

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