They, with lips tangled,
grasping at the nothingness
of Love—ultimately only
tasting lust—seize a moment
at the sun’s wake.
A procession of coffins,
filled with nightmares,
trips into the scene.
Traffic jams are stemming
out, branches on a tree of
confusion… And the light
reads red.
Lovers tick away at old
cookoo clocks, greedy for
another bird song. But
no birds will wake without
a greeting from sunrise.
Slipping into a deafening
chorus of cosmic composition,
three lovers grip at their hearts
trying to resuscitate their souls.