The Reaper’s cloak swooshes across the road.
A feeling of doom sweeps over my bones,
I hear the sound of sharpening up in my throat,
of words, that were his, or his,
is often entombed
in the backlash
perfect pearl blue.
Ever since the wolf was at the front door,
we’ve build our lives with bricks,
The heart is a hunter searching
before the dead of winter has melted;
Mother Teresa sent her message out
in the bent and broken bodies
writhing as fuel to fill her soul
The world is a gamble,
In jest we place our bets
and wink at destiny
as hopeful players do
in this the game of craps.
I looked for you
in places we used to go,
I returned, I had seen,
and was conquered.
Around her I was Icarus
with wings alight and burnt to nubs,
now glowing as embers and garnets
as I slowly descend into the adjust
of knowing there is no longer an us
and longing to submit to the plunge.
There are so many languages to love,
but only one English to prize
and take into ones arms with such fondness
as to spark flames of passion high
as angels might fancy to fly, my dear.
In youths youngest hour comes the dawn
and we whirl around at the sky,
and being young and in love