in this line of listless lovers, by S. Fitzwilliam

in this line of listless lovers,

bathed in blood from head to toe,

your story is my respite.

memories i may only wish to know,

the ending being forfeit.

make me your alexander—

where you are my achilles—

i'll watch and awe and wonder

with every new beginning.

from fleeting flights of fancy,

i'll follow in your footsteps.

make me a dreamer with you,

my destiny, i'll forget.

lost in the pages of your chivalry unending,

impassioned i will be;

false hearts be what i'm rending.

you'll kill for your patroclus,

and i'll follow suit for whom mine may be.

i'm living in the then and now,

no thought of my caesar to be.

thus, in line we fall,

we men who dream of loving.

and through our sea of enemies,

we'll find just what we covet—

who'll slip straight through our fingers,

both our bodies Earth will come to collect.

in our wakes we leave

these ambitious, foolish bastards

who'll fight to be what we were,

falling shorter with each thereafter.