What will become of me?
Of you who are reading this?
What will become of the blood and the bones that we hope will last when all natural beauty has faded?
What will become of love not expressed, not returned, never seen the light of day?
And love that is, that was, that basked in the shining sun?
What will become of the ones that could not be saved?
And of the ones that could?
Winning or loosing ....
The world turns and turn we do into spinning space
And turn we must upon the perilous knife-edge of choosing