The way, it seems, goes like this:

shift away, back down, and you’ll
fall to your knees.
Make it to me and we’ll figure the
onuses of our lives, for they
riddle the fates, running morbidly,
with their ears cut off and ancillary
mouths stitched to their leather.
It seems, as it continues - immutably -
everything deteriorates, and rots
like the fading pigments of your
smile as the light burns out. 
We’ll achromatize into a feathery
crisp rhododendron, and then
they’ll pick us up, pluck our petals,
and set us down again. Pigeonholed.
We won’t know this though, for
we’ll believe that the world is anew,
and see the world as so. We’ll
marvel and cerebrate at all of
their beauty, as if their hands cradled
the universe and all of its speckled
travesties. We’ll think, “This is the life.”
We’ll think, “We’ve made it.” But,
they, in reality - the way it goes -
deride our mentalities for their true shape:
nothing but a puny little peanut.