Hands clasped
between the milk mustaches
on rotting benches
with nowhere to go
but nearer.
Vines entangle their feet
flutters begin and
reality lands on their laps.
No comprehension of time
the mess it brings.
Living in the current
the ebb and flow
the cyclical pattern
of living and love.
Each freckle an apology
to accompany the age lines of wisdom.
Nearer they grow
by the pattern of the moon
and his watchful eyes.
Now, they decide,
is the time to die.
To separate self from self
and self from soul.
Their last kiss brings
the sea's salty tears
and quenches the fountain of life.
It's belly never too full
it's false promises
mislabeled for eternal propaganda.
The last sand grain drops
and their hands release
crooked bodies and
even more crooked souls.
Again, they mush wait,
this time for the rain.