Moirai's play

it is a set up
the conspiracy of everything that has ever happened up to now
a door held open
an invitation
with a limo pick-up
a precariously placed object
atop stairs
a polypeptide
a paddywagon ride
parted lips
perfect fit


there is no decision
there is a condition
for a lock and a key


there is a play that might as well be
a movie
re-run for the 22nd time
at midnight
on t.v.


there is a heartless puppet
and a heartbroken script in the devil’s hand
with a heartfelt speech that is eternally banned
there is the way it is written
that ensures there is no other way
it is written


there are walls separating rooms
where spaces are filled


there is everything
but not everything
gets everything
there is a thing called love
there is love


there is a thing called love
that this fucked-up fluke is not allowed to have