Comrade

Comrade Some say, in youth, Youth can not win for losing. And then there is the truth of a comrade Righted by his own will and a use of him, And he is his best back-slapping memory of you. A projected backtalk slap across the face Of some unknown authority that missed out in its race A lover foiled in the folly of love, a basket case. He is youth’s idyllic haste A lover leading into a chase, The tone of its full throttle collision Of stars, cars, evening rains, Lovers switching lanes, In the haste and charm Of truth’s double-edged sword, Filled with its own conceit and harm. For, she is its mirror of you, The diadem of perfection In the raging tempest, Of its imperfection of you. And he is its wildfire, the comrade upon all shores, Pulling her up From the wasteland of closed doors, The imperatitude of his ballistic message, Colliding full throttle in love for her love, And its idyllic score. Who wins in this lover’s game? Not one knows, for in it, She and I are One, the same. The socket punch to the shoulder, The laughter beneath its iron fortress of blanket and boulder, The fireworks display, The enraged lover bound in its cage A lover’s line scribbled across its page, Our hearts unbound and free, In union in the count of days, The uncaged bird singing free OF a heaven and its rays, Of only what comrades can see When merit calls us to lead.