The world belongs to love.
Tempest tossed bridges
Ex-spiring in distressed moonlight
try desperately to tell a comforting tale.
Lovers live in tranquil moonlit towers
supping on light and air resplendent
of cooing affection.
Hope, their flowery cygnet, flutters
about adorably knocking over vased roses,
antique hummels, nagging arguments.
Companion in siren or silence
countervails harsh chemical odors indelicately
nibbling at what could have been your core?
Who am I, mere cynic, to want you
to believe in unmendable foundations
when all that can be done
is give in to grief?
May 19, 2010