She is on the doorstep,
I upon the floor,
Her eyes are pleading to follow,
My hands motion; No more.
The horizon has come home,
And now the birds perch,
Not in a galore of bright calls, hidden under crests of deep colors,
But in dead nods of grey heads, as
Timeless pendulums, mocking
This synergy, of false prophecies.
I have tasted the nectar,
Pulsing and bright,
Like forged frost; wilted white,
And the copper shore,
Breathing against the lifeless flow,
Of envy, turned dust, turned rust,
Now turn once again,
To me, to you,
And everything true.
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