Wednesday, 18 July 2018



The heavenly stars,
grab our hands,
tie them to strings,
jerking wrists’ rings
to charm brilliant things.
Random their precision,
unplanned in system,
heart twisting our seconds,
until kismet beckons.

Infinite, impossible child,
modest, running mild,
flash sparkling smile
across the aisle.
Your frown, eyes down:
How can you be there?
No time to spare,
got to get on, so
goodbye, so long,
parallel walking,
done with talking, but
I’m looking well:

I know. It’s that spell
I’ve had in the hot sun.
Where I had to run
and had no right
to return from.
No outstretched hand
and I understand that I'm
lost language at most;
I should be a ghost.

As should your grin;
recalling love’s sins,
memory’s distance
puts up hard resistance.
But your cheeks flushed,
hair unbrushed,
words tumble-rushed,
throat blushed,
eyes still warm,
lips lacking scorn,
too soon gone.

So, dare defy the heavens
as we part and lessen?
Seconds will kiss hands,
run fingers through sands,
hours dream reminisces,
where once lived blisses,
as we are time’s puppets
for as long as she wishes.

Months then years
will pity frost’s fears,
shed forgiving tears,
soften words once cruel
for all fortune’s fools.
I hear their call,
for, maybe after all,
 spells are not broken
until the stars have spoken.

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