Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 19

Clothed with prelude and aftermath;
the (parenthesis) of our inebriated howl,
where hopes and regrets tilt upon their axis
and time can no further be sliced into the illusion of stillness.

Our borrowed mysteries, always in motion
always tapering
from crescendo to resolution
the old worlds die within elderly habits
and we are reborn each day into a new hope;

Sequels of glad promise and foray
with senses poised beyond the borders of our fingertips
and eyes widened to swallow the sun,
we inhabit rumors of your ecstasy.