Fatal Fates and Laureates

Can a pen wander on unlined boulevards 
and find the moment when Pierre Bezukhov 
realized that the Alyosha life was not going 
to sit under the cornerstone of a path
that follows both passion and passion?

Chronology is a damned circle, wandering 
history until the blood runs as ice under the 
boots and hooves of a host whose house
can only just contain the souls that were 
cut off by the edge's blades -- inevitability. 

How many Napoleons does it take to
undo our bad values? How many Nietzsches
to undergo super-no-more valuation? How 
many lives and fates can sneak out of unholy
unions to find their fame and lose their souls?

In translation, we can never know. Under blizzard
skies, we will have to forgo the prepositions that
made our propositions seem seemly, while Cyrillic 
and Mandarin ties deselect Shakespeare and 
drown the world in cause and effect.

Whose fault? Unfriendliness is the opposite of peace.
And, like we said so many times in those dynamite 
prize winning speeches, I am great and your worship
must lead us all from fights to light. Only so many problems
are stacked up by egoistic hands, to be worked out by the rest.

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