Final Draft

Even if that noble truth (be it either),
love, should perish and be vanquished to
hell, I would follow that which I love,

For more noble, or so it now seems,
truth shall neither vanquish love nor commit it
to perish but strengthen those ties to bond, so...

Burden be gone, and shed concrete feet not
on thy way to the abyss, but leave truth and
love to shine the world's reflection from its glass face,

Because the world reflects more brightly when
love and truth trade favored glances and flirt neither
with should-not-be nor cannot-happen,

And skirting this danger, they alight softly to
conceive, moult through instars, then pupate in the
crevice of a pine cone, until the final imaginal stage:

A ruddy moth emerges to find itself sealed in a
plastic bag, flitting in frustration, only to be released
to wild the open night, far away from home

but free.