Stars surrender at the end of day
the sun the master of corners
is tripped up at the threshhold
by what we dropped in our rush
to be told to stop and rest.
Surrender, master, or flee
your rocky lair will not hold
against the cold of cheers
by denizens of the thorniest
briars around the falling house,
crying out surrender, master
in voices you never heard
before for fear of shaking
the ground around the foundations
vibrating now with hatred.
If the master surrenders then
will the followers who will never
be successors come to appreciate
the fragility of the barely whole
finely teertering enterprise?
And so the master must wrestle
with the inevitable surrender
that wraps around hands like rope
that hopelessly ravels and unravels
in noise of abandonment not
coming to fruition today.