taking our time with the pomp
of each delicately sussed predilection
savoring the space
that each question leaves hanging
before it is filled with words
half of which will be forgotten
relegated to half-remembrances
Whether we believe in past lives
or after lives
or have any faith in life itself
doesn't really make a difference
it's just a gradual escalation
from favorites to fondnesses
the blunt being replaced
with the muted qualities of our selves
For we are indistinct creatures
capable of consuming the world
when our appetites are properly whet
shapeshifters who've forgotten
what our first form ever was
reminded only by the twinkling of an eye
that we were once stars
the same lights on which we feast
I seem to have slipped
into a potential full of promise
into an infinite
cultivated by those who came before
those who found shape worth taking
and decided to remain
spirits tied to the night sky
monsters that smile as they dine
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