Rain runs through
gutters of my heart
dark floods
late September light
& here we are,
the crossroads of
Libra:
still hanging on.
What is it that
allows the past
to breakfast on
our children?
To tear new worlds
apart?
You, gloomy in
this thunder sky
carry your own child
trussed up inside
mute & wild
still so blind
to your own knife
that butchers.
Rain runs through
gutters of my heart
we are too old
for time to touch us:
& yet as darkness
floods the light
you return again
just like before:
to haunt me.
