The sky this season has passed by.
Clouds swaying on the
wrinkled skirt of love.
Once, you lived
on mid-levels of paradise.
Now, you are high-flying and adored
A self-declared queen.
Selling your time for pink trinkets.
And beautiful robots in tears.
I deal in single ways.
Too sad too chill out at Starbucks.
Too happy to recoil
each day and fall apart.
As if this only happens to me.
With garden-variety brick walls.
I find beauty – a life old and ordinary.
Everlasting, and no end of bother.
Just like the silver thing
in the sky, we call the moon.
For better, for worse
or for the moon’s sake.
The tiniest of gallows.