Dec 03, 2010 16:19
The Doctor, he said, and
I am who I am
So she asked
What he wanted was not life
But the beginnings of things
Galaxies blooming and easybumped
Shoulders and in your hand
Mine
-Own race receding
beyond limits of feeling.
So what’s left but everything?
Else-wise what would she be.
Doing?
Endless rounds walking
A retailed ritual vigil
And steaming, steeping in daily
Ablutions to the life she
assumed Immortality by the cupful
In (not quite, he knows) the worst possible way.
It’s not the blue-boxed miracle appearing
In infinite space -wrapped ribbons of
Time
But (I take the) words
that turn her head;
Swelling, and unborn regrets
So she came to him
Running
Away, is what he never told her. From
Nothing, is what he never said
Things could be different
(your hand in mine)
For he’s not afraid
Only
Of the beginnings of things
But
S- he never expected
Galaxies blushing and
Easybumped lifelines and wrapping him up
In ribbons of time. He
Who is who he is. Who
She is went on a whim.
Who she is
Is not yet who she
will be.
challenge 59,
:missnyah