Because we who had been furious storm
And peckish flame,
And crackling thunder,
And lashing volts of electricity.
Have become swirling white ash,
And dry bone fragments dancing in whirlwinds,
And yesterday’s fuzzy memories,
And tomorrow’s forgotten dream.
Now we sit under the dying moon,
And swallow regrets and sighs in achy burning throats,
And hold hands in the shelter of darkness,
And watch life drain between our intertwined fingers.