And years are what?

 

Spectacles bleaching our hair,

distant as the streaking train, the murmured rocking,

cupping your shoulder blade, years after years

passing through with annihilation as cohabiting as romance,

and your voice, a big blue doe eye

marching; talk is further and to be away.

Time is everything, all scope

to brood floods

like a hospital could in an orchestra,

mopping the history of Human:

colours, pummelling secrets, barks,

echoes, wounds and touches,

soldiers, tears, mothers

and strangers that hurt like mirrors.

 

And years are what?

Not wanting to go,

Beauty.