The Sun dies and is being reborn, and time, everytime
In my inner soul, wincing, over the irrevocable
Or the resilient lie
I am relying on for so long—in vain—
That, yes, maybe,
I lost her.
The thin moon shadows my comprehension,
In memory of her.
Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus
Pluck the strings to no avail.
A sweet sound withdrawn
Is sharp, swift and scathe
Beyond repair.
Her glassy lips voided me inward.
My heart—overgrown.
Without her, the sand creeps upward,
The vapors fume to rust
And the thorny stars
Turn to dust.*

© 2015 J.S.P.