Crossing the street
Blindfolded
Hold my hand
From where you came
To where you are going
Hours demand
A fallen sacrifice
Lightning
Seeks
Your attention
Don't mention it
We begin again
To make amends
And mend our linens
Before we wash them
In public spaces
Shadows remove
Their spectacles
And let's be honest
With ourselves
Or at least
Aspire to be sincere
It appears that
Our mutual feelings
Are in arrears
These days
As leap years burn
Your holy garments
Old shirts are torn
From the holes
Within our firmaments
Young brides must tackle
Insubstantial problems
Like how many  
Triangles are born
From uniting two
Hollow spheres
Yet to solve them
Must forever remain
Closer to impossible

It was a quaint
feeling. Something was
going to happen.

I had asked the fading
moon, are you going
to die?

Fear was going to
win, it said. The blues
are approaching.

Do you believe in
probables of phobias?
The killing of big hugs?

No mercy for the
obsession of noisy celebration.
A god was changing the gender.

I forgive the fire,
forget the light and
start embracing the dark for a bang.

Parables are probables
Myths are mysterious
Anecdotes are allegories
Legends are luminaries
     Fables are folklore
  Epics are extravagant
   Sagas are statements
Chronicles are calendars
  Glossaries are guides
       Slogans are slick
Captions are colophons
  
   Poems are per verse!