The poem lacks rhythm,
the song a lilt, each heart
its beat, your life me.

Entwined trails of fireworks
consummate in peonies, bursts
of rainbow erupt from hollow black
sky, reverberate under the dome.

Moonlight, oblivious to the cover
of clouds below, is all we have
left once the hot lights spark
then fade, millions of colors
in the wake that moves the darkness.

Nothing holds me. Fortunes slip
overnight. The better days I’ve
contemplated no longer hold promise.

Poems for no one. Songs for no voice.
Hearts without blood. Pumping. Exsangue.

Chagall 2018

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