Who Dat?

 So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature.

For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men pay harsh Strife her honour due.

Cold. Unforgiving. A perfect name for the dwarf planet that knocked Pluto from its full planetary status. Sometimes nearer, sometimes three times farther away than Pluto. Elliptical. Barren and fruitless in the end.
But still...
A tiny sparkle in our telescopes. A light at the end of the tunnel, or a wasteful expedition towards an unobtainable goal?
A one way ticket to the pipe dream of your choice more likely...
But then again, possibly...
An otherworldly peak to unfurl flags to, to stake claim and lay law upon...
And conquer, for no reason other than just that: to conquer.
To trample and maim, to darken the doorstep of...
To further corrupt the orbit of its chaotic nature...
And hasten its fatal collision with Pluto.
Seemingly on a whim, no less. But, alas, with purpose all the same.
Fervor gives way to gnashed teeth, perspiration lubricates the rusty gears to motion...
But for what?
Vaporization and existence revoked.
Better than never having been, but less than having fully blossomed into final blissful splendor.
Resentful, but beholden to the toehold that was almost achieved...
Yet is nothing but a scratch upon the illuminated countenance of a victorious maiden enamored with the lifeblood of the many corpses strewn upon the battlefield of our short time together.

The bereavement is fleeting, and the throb is dulled to a pulsing chill that drains into unnoticeable fade to black.
It was all a dream of things that never happened, things we repelled ourselves from, insulated.
A spark indeed...
A Morrison-esque ode to the spark that ignited the flame that consumed us in whole.
An ode to the strife of us that dare only to dare without the flint to ignite without an outside flint...
The daftest of the daft...
The kingliest of the fallen fool...
Your salvation, too.
An almost...
A should've been.
A casualty of wars that were beyond the grasp of what was intended, and what was hoped for.
A resurrection of a thing long thought to be dead, he was.
A light switch that was turned back on against its will, yet with total permission.
Go crazy...
Go insane...
Vault the hurdles of your inquisitively, but sheltered nature, yet succumb...
To the deep southern drawl of my...

My...
My...
My...
It is almost as if a woman wants to stifle the things a man stands for. A lucky man is the one that meets his match: a woman that speaks her mizzind...