I never attend the serenity
Of shimmering prostrated skies
Wrinkled as they bow to imperfection;
Made to dance by the beating breeze
Reflecting sparkles and spitting flecks
Of frothing gold.
It is because the crime scene
must be preserved authentically
for I know that my memory
Ill serves my hopeless longing.
Perhaps it was the electricity
Dancing around her azure eyes
The sinking sun a shadow of her face
Or the perfect skies stooping to
Caress a naked thigh.
And now years later as the days
of a nostalgic past grow old
And memories betray the will
The agony of futile hope plagues me still
Yet I think the pain is love's sadness
The pain that perfection so much envies
As the sky is tempered to imperfection
The agony of rapid unification and separation
