These fingers point at letters

Those letters point at words

And then the disturbance -

Occurs

 

My love she was a vixen,

She howled in the night,

Those feelings they just left me -

Despite them being right.

 

This mourning just continues,

Throughout decades, in a line,

My lover she engages me -

In time.

 

Those swirling skies of fortune,

This lake's grey and white despair,

These suicides at sunrise -

Ethereal and rare. 

 

Semiotics is the science 

Of signs and portents too,

But even without language,

Blue would still be blue.