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.