In the vast expanses
of wanderlust
human fallibility
comes second
only to its own
frailty
It seeks
In each
Expression
An eternal
Sense of sonder
But does not
Seem to grasp
It
When it comes.
Why only
Do we wish to
Accept
Forms of love
Not of our kind?
And why oh why
Do we try to
Accept
Only things
Strange
And alien?
When told
Of a bind
More intricate
Than our own
Our minds
Don’t w a/o nder
Rather
Intent on understanding
They
Understand
And in that
Understanding
The one thing
That fails
To become
Accepted
Is that they
So unhappy
With their own
Reflection
Seek a mirror
To become
Itself
A source
Or warmth
But trickling
In a fire
Wrought by silver
Oxide
There is only:
A Cold
As apathetic
As it is
Discarnate.