lightning doesn’t strike twice
two feet and two knees that nobble occasionally,
and chatter like teeth in an arctic freeze.
Together in harmony.
Now since the rain clouds
washed those other clouds away,
and you were drained.
When you breathed a rainbow,
golden soul,
and drew the route of you in the window,
pain.
Primary coloured moments;
exposed in chrome,
caught in time,
no remains.
But then the stars and superlatives came to play.
And the memories fade.
When the night first spoke and the sun laid to rest.
He spoke of Moondust and mistrust of the Government.
They told him once,
and they told him twice,
that science could only be defined by what we know.
So he searched the stardust on the seabed,
and seeked what he sowed.
Oceans away from home,
only to piece together tiny shards of shattered stars,
with those telescopic time machines that he used to own.
