Years

Years I’ve grown to love the taste
Sweet seeds of the pomegranate’s bitter embrace.
And there is not enough to grieve upon.
Come to think of it, there never was.
Only once did I ever compliment her.
On the good her life had become.
Maybe if there was conversation,
Between the liar and the other one.
Maybe if there wasn’t so many ways
To tell her that I love her
When the rain stops, I ask her to come in.
She waltzes through the drops.
She’s only the Bird Girl, I thought but I…
Her eyes are made of stone.
A yellow magnolia machine churns petals.
Of a Gerber daisy’s heart.
Warm enough to drive us home tonight.
But Cold enough to keep us apart.
And all the sleepers
Come to the county fair
With ambitions in hand
And failures long passed.