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.