We can only do, what we have done. Truth born out on the terraces overlooking the ocean. Cameras blink in Kodachrome flashes, pretty little women with sunshine and sashes. The peacocks utterly arrayed, time for amorous clashes when the night is still young. Amber warmth and Tanzanite dream, the sultry shower of gentle touches, for me is lost in the dull, dark crevice. Gold and silver and a gawdy necklace, the latter seemingly to be, entirely feckless. Twins angels, soft to one’s touch, with tiny raindrops pinging on our arms. Is that pure love, in the soft flutter of butterfly wings? All the honey as an enticement, darkens. Promises reneged upon and writs of notice, like confetti, are now, a stainless brow. From Rice to Cynicism and Jake from State Farm, now insidious, irreversible.