devils in our palms, (light lights love's love-handles but never cornered corners)

it’s funny how things work.
we walk armless ...

with good intentions placed where our necks meet our shoulders,

but always with devils in our touching palms.
we weather storms

but too quickly break our oars before we reach the islands
who are we to intimidate segregated feelings?
who was we?
we race along this love life lit lifeless loveless path,
in dreams to one day meet the window
when do we shut the door?
when do grey clouds turn light to day and night to existence?