Winter weekend

and it brings us to our last seething steps,
a ritual for gods and the young;
lots of chocolate dripping from half-formed lips,
and eyes drowsy from the previous nights
ghastly endeavours. c’est la vie, they said,
as their words careened through the clouds,
poking holes this way and that,
making way for the sun and it’s rays.
though it’s winter, with glittering grass in
the morning and leaves withering brown and black
in each other’s company – we are to each other
what sparrows are to the sky,
their puffed out tails swinging
and slashing, cutting arcs of beauty through
the air. Despite the spade of rising voices,
and intermittent timbres of sound, you sit and
read obscure japanese poems while i brush the
dust off precious vinyls. The day soon will
draw to a close, like a play run past it’s
worth; and past the open door you’ll run. Soon,
perhaps, we’ll see each other again.
but not before the heavens crumble
some more, and the earth under our feet gives
way to dried mud and bones.


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