Between the ponds, I sit and write. To whom?—unknown—but this I might: add a flare to any hand and there, I’ll be—to err—withstand. Hold me not but kiss me so. The fatal flaw, the mortal tow. Then I stand in fields abloom, catastrophizing all to come. A pinky promise made of dawn resurfaces atop the stream. And, if I may, speak it so, I manifest all I know with just two letters: M and O. If M and E stands for ME then who stands for I without a cause? Again, we find the fatal flaw: the treachery within us all.