hear the sound of every rusted, blunted mace

as they greet and meet  through gravity’s lack of grace,

each at thirty two point two,

the fateful rate of this heaving season

where fruits misplace a summer’s trust to kiss the dirt

and, where they fall, corrode and stall the wheels of love

for those we find untouchable

while yet our hearts may still enmesh, b...

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Love sick,
Love torn,
Love lost,
misplaced trust,
not in God,
but in us,
in I and you,
what was lust
turned so quickly
to earth scorched
red as angry rust.
There ain't no God, Mister,
there ain't no God,
but those who believe
believe in what they must
until that final day
when boxed and earthed
we will return
ashes to ashes
and dust to dust.

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