Don't Trust to Happiness

Tremble gentle crumpled limbs,
Born in cold and age, and tears,
Frame unfolds as does the world,
Both more and less than it appears,
Each exhale marks one less breath,
Bittersweet as the vision clears.

At the altar of vows and love,
With words, and wax, and rings,
Icarus flies too near the sun,
And free-falls with crumpled wings
For the bond, like flesh itself,
Holds by breath and fragile strings.

And when the nations cease their wars,
Brothers will melt guns to plowshares,
'Til greed or power will seed a slander,
Muting amity and the chorus of prayers,
And eye for eye, and blood for blood,
As demons and reapers sell their wares.

So savor the wine when it is poured,
For the wine, the vine and the vineyard,
Will sour, will wilt, will be deserted,
As with everything held in high regard,
Don't trust, for the winds are fickle,
That fan the fires 'til all is charred.