So long, life seemed splendid & youth, held such a succulent scent;those mémoires survived the ages still - so on to say & stay beyondthe horizon of wisdom.

Regrets & remorse, as in the epitome of a living today, suffice sucha saddened sight of disbelief upon chapters which ceased toexist...along an algorithm, alleging a passé presumably a Passover- the moulding chapters of maturity & bringing about a change...acollapsed change

The light...this light of childhood happiness, faded so fast &frequently, a belief of betterment arose from frequencies of falsefantasies & fake freedom. Entity erased entirely, doom destroyedwhoever wrote destiny & nothingness built one hell of a void; whatwent wrong?!? Only living such a specific stage of existence once,once to yearn for a relapse of singular sacrificial returns to the oldways - devising delusions of detrimental eras where, Kings & Knights knew & prophesied all together like a miraculous Mage. Isthis how it's supposed to be? Has such a childhood crossed thefinish line already or, did we reach the end of the trail? Too many questions unanswered by these ambitions, ambitions whichexceeded our worth...

So long, before that end, hope retrieved what seemed splendid &youthful, as young as tonight's nature - a sky full of stars, with amoon...well...a moon to guide us home

~ A. Rose

We decided to take a walk.
If the moon and stars still existed,
they were hidden behind clouds.

Then a fog hit us like a wave, a cloud
that had run out of gas and crashed on us,
to further shrink the perceptible world.

Ordinary, walking people became vague
phantoms that could loom, in film noir
black and white out of the fog,
suddenly sharpen and colorize,
only to disappear again in moments.

Sounds, out of sync, or garbled, came sharply
from odd angles, turning that fifth sense unreliable.
Noises, at first muted, were abruptly amplified as
if the hand of that ghostly vapor ran a soundboard.

A man, moving in stalker-like silence, clops,
like a clydesdale on cobblestone as he passes close.

I half expected a distant fog horn to announce
the passing of a ghost ship where all be welcome.

A harbor town, just like this one, swept up in fog
the seagulls, ghosts emerging from the skies

the river glistens soft & wide,
the Cranes for now are sleeping giants

he kisses her, the anxious gun pressed tight
against his hand in his pocket

he is a dock worker
she is a seamstress

they're a black & white film
because technicolor here is impossible

he is you & she is me
we speak only in French

the kids on the block
will get you the next day.