There is in sadness a sense of Fall, of spacious leprosy where crippled thought like the outmoded nymph dies behind each tree, and childlike peeks out to let at least childhood disbelieve in its unhappy end.
     There is in sadness, a branch that holds the once-upons, the happily-evers, and the destined-to-bes, a sweet find for all in grief.  Each stem lends momentum to their pluckings.
          There is in sadness, a young man who cherishes dead leaves.  He lately held waxen happiness and knew this as his permanence.

Tommy guns for insurance
And wads of sweaty cash
To build new empires with

But there are no guarantees
Crime, you see, doesn't pay
You can bank on it

So we already know how it ends:
They canceled his policy
And Dunaway with her

I walk along
the stoney roads
where
pebbles seem to scatter
as I step

My lift
cloud be
a complement
to her wings

But it is the earth
to whom I’m kept

As she has me
looking up
just to find myself
looking down

Chained to the roots
of all the grounds
In which I wish to fly

It’s funny…

On this level
i can see
just where
all those pebbles hide