A sonnet for Nicole
Now to the door we had since left open,
where the bodies and ghosts of now and past
came and went by, moving perhaps too fast,
but free, to take for granted such motion,
coursing unconcerned whether it would last,
a high charge spiriting this untolled way,
far away from the discharged shock of day,
this one true passage, the first and the last.
To this open door a hand, hard and gray,
with force of will born out the anti-charge,
manifesting spite, until now at-large,
held Doom's Day's thunder, held its crash at bay,
held the door and paused, it could not slam gloom,
for Infinity's Love was in that room.