Accident of Stars
The last of love is acid rain. A soak
of elemental forces strips the oak
and flaunts its yellowed canopy as prize.
The weather wrongs us, punishes the eyes
for seeing, cuts the heart, the beating fist
of moments proving each of us exist.
Love passes, secret as it came, and yet
each glance contributes to a fixed regret
no parting eases. Circumstance dictates
a measure of remorse. What future waits
beyond this accident of stars is ours,
apart, and fainter with the drifting hours.
A hazard dogs each rendezvous, the wrung
heart, sudden thrill of sulphur on the tongue.
No comments:
Post a Comment