The licking lightning wrests the sky from the dark,

Both warring and weeping in its breaking brevity,

Flashing collective notions of a life through the minds of all who look on,

Rumbling with discontent as to how soon it had to leave,

To which the wind shrieks an accord,

Clinging to faces of rocks and people that will not change, 

When more has been said than done

 

And the parties shatter the silence of the aftermath,

Where dusk and dawn are left in inconsequence,

The guests cheer as their spilling glasses are raised in a toast,

To the vistas between the manifest and dream worlds they know,

Yet want to visit, someday, at the end of their lives,

Morbidity forsaken, a new experience all the same,

Where those with no preparation perhaps have the most

 

Whilst silhouettes play through a screen,

Mirroring images of eroticism,

And the kisses and movements were more genuine

Than anything we ever knew,

Tripping through the most sublime of scenes,

And for none but ourselves came even an inkling of sin.

 

And the meandering course of the water,

Reflects and imitates our ever so clumsy paths,

And the only lives we knew emerged for and of our fun,

The seal of the pact of lips to the tear in the love and the land,

Where the flowers and flies surround our deadened selves,

When more has been said than done