Our Days

Some fights are hopeless not because they can’t be won, but because winning them means losing. Attempting to conquer nature we will eventually conquer just ourselves.

But the world will not end. The tombstones, and ruins will overgrow with new, living flowers.



This place, so boldly tamed
caught in a tight knit net
of black, and white and red,
and all colours neatly named
for eyes that never met
in clouds of glittering frost,
where marble beams of night
buried all shades of light,
and wistful glances lost
their dreamy, hopeless fight.

Where even tears were set on fire
and hissed their angry claims
to barren, crippled names
till breath died on a pyre
of choking plastic flames.

Now there is no one left to mourn
just tangled willows lean
upon the olden ways forlorn
weaving new nights and days unborn,
our days that might have been.