That Which Does Not Love a Choice

An old-fashioned poem.

Wars, twinkies, famines, shampoo
Balances consume, and a BMW
Drives, like we, songbirds can rap
Melodies yarn over choices we trap
Too living, too far, too old, too soon
For a sun to rise over a frigid moon,
For a dawn over we, the people
Who staid swear solemn deceitful
Lies on this raft, the nacreous sea
Curdles our way, or a destiny,
But which is our way, we know
We can't say, to know
Is too look at our wake, with love
In contempt of that destiny: that love
Which does not love a choice,
But hates a bright rudder,
And so prevails in mud, her
Eyes blue swordfish at dance
Under ocean, under chance, and
Since there is none but love, and we,
The masses love what not ought to be.