We must have love suggested now and then,
Believing it exists despite the pain--
A longshot or illusion I suppose,
The fool's lost invocation, Pan's lament,
Come up to something more than harmony
On fractured lines where we invented words,
Then tore them up, a beautiful display
Of broken things like hearts & window panes,
Notes hanging low and bent beneath the sky
We're also told is nothing more than dust.
But I insist it's there, so blue today.