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.