The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.

In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.

Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.

Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.

always churning the dichotomies
what life is light dark
then turning to view the sunset
in your eyes  
the view
changes into
heart bursts and sunrises
no matter what time of night it is
stars hold no place in my eyes
nor does a full moon
when glowing I catch
the slight glimpse of gold in
your eyes your soul shines

come when you have to face reality
hard it can be as iron frozen
like a tongue stuck to a pole
in December at the top of the world
with your pants down turn around
see others for the first time
their faces eyes starving just as much as yours
then say I am sorry
breathe once in a while
instead of chasing that goal
of things you can hold but not
ever take from here with you

simply paradise
wherever she is
that is where
I long to be