Strangers Again

Desolation in The Course of Empire. Thomas Cole. 1836.

Destruction after consummation 
because only the intimate can be destroyed,
otherwise everything is line
reeling without tension:
The emptiness of endeavoring without reward
is time wasted;
not even love should be so self-deprecatingly, and unlovingly, 
selfless. 
But all things culminate,
even the disappointments—
most times it isn't "everything you thought it would be,"
and most other times it is nothing at all.
And most times still,
fantasies are just that.

We are not our tribe
with disallowing blood,
but companions by chance found
among the wreckage of 
someone else's empire,
now desolate,
searching for our own.
Will our children find us again,
like we found each other.