Fate’s Crumbling Grip

Slipping,
slipping like rain
through shingles,
and shuddering,
falling in between the slats,
pecking at the window glass,
asking to come in,
to walk around,
to stay awhile.
“Welcome,” I say,
and suddenly
lines are undrawn
and stars become uncrossed
so that lovers might love
in spite of the rules written
in the sky
on long forgotten nights
where pieces fit
instead of faltering before
the misery of fate,
 
But fate wears the face of
everything we know
and all those we could,
would,
and ever have touched,
so possibility only genuinely
resides where passion lives,
where flames put out the
bleak cold that exists in
or outside of the glass houses
we all build for our minds
and hearts,
between the spaces that hinder us
from finding our true peace,
and moments that beg us to
collapse under the sheer pressure
of being alive
 
The pieces of those faces,
those unforgotton moments
where we blazed
instead of burned out,
they rise,
rise,
climb up
until the air is thin
and perspective is not,
and we can turn outside
the inside thoughts
tethering us,
and instead,
show us the possibility
of predestination
 
By Christopher Rupley and Patience 2015
 
(This is a poetic collaboration between myself and Patience. She completes my thoughts like no other writer I know. Please take a few minutes, hours, days, or weeks reading her other works by visiting Loveletterstoaghost).

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