Love how the dying leaves rustle in darkness’ delight,
howling their wimping existence through the subtle light
of the lone moon, entwined with stars above farther than it can ever reach,
losing its identity in the invisible threads, not knowing which from which.
Love the flames ensconcing the trees, burying the thieves,
along with the men, from whom they took everything
but the faces they donned, the lives they fought,
they wail low and deep, withering, souls taut.
Love the poisoned houses, clad with crevices and promises,
broken hapless, denied by happiness,
flickering light bulbs swinging in the basement,
hope in lament, much more for what it’s meant.
Love the unrequited, the real, though it goes forever
in one direction, no attention, only misconception. Sever
the ties you wish to be true, lest it all form for you,
learn fast, such things do not fall for its due.
Love the unusual, the misshapen shadows,
the glazed bitterness underneath, the unseen nervous toes.
Love how all presents itself in holy wreaths, as we go,
when you close your eyes, they’re sure to bow and show.