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.