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ten poems
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for beauty, kindness of sorts, wired to the world,
never fails to feel the emptiness
of the infinite wheeling tapestry of the stars.
And why? Because all beauty betrays us in the end.
We are always left craving for more.
The tired bags under the eyes, testament to the craven
nights of longing without sleep. Once I dreamt
of making love with a girl –
all her innocence weighing on me
like an anvil, a flower blooming just for me.
Now the nightly liturgy draws me back to the future,
where we will never meet again,
and my words vanish
in darkness, sacred relics in a time of wonder,
no less lost for our acquaintance, no more significant.