And this too shall pass

Summer's day. Summer's end. A pastry for a dollar spent. Crumbling shortbread.
Ivy clings to cream walls. Warm sun streaming through halls. Flowers spill out of window stalls.
Holding hands, we walk. Passing trees. We talk. Marble stairs. Bird song.

They seem, so distant, so tasteless. Stuck in that wasteland. Honey drips at day's end, the birds that chirp but never land. They just don't understand.

The clouds afloat, glowing pink and gold. The steeple bells tolled. We lay, staring at a blue space, watching it fade to cold. The plaster cast of finer molds. A white manor, maps to hold.

Fall's come. Fall's gone. Empty beds, chilled dawns. A memory of seared prawns.
The tide comes, the tides go. The rain drips so slow. Eyes wrung, pillows soaked.

Howling winds, warm stove. A wooden home in a pine grove. A cave of limestone.
Trains pass, gliding. A city brightening. A bathtub with jet streams.
The warmth of a cotton dress. The warmth of deep breaths. Street food, a happy mess.
Squeezing into a tiny space. Convenience stores by our own place.

They say, so maybe, so one day. Half blurred photographs that won't stay. The glass that cuts as it slips through fingers, the blood that runs the other way.

The first time, the first night. Curtains retreating from daylight. The stars beneath, in flight. White leather sofas and black little dresses, ropes and knuckles and teeth and feathers. The hands that never left anything but scratches.

A bitten tongue, a broken wick. A short and melting candlestick. A melody to heal the sick.
A shattered, silver coated looking glass.
And this too shall one day pass.

And this, too, shall one day pass