Death comes to me in dreams:
The dead float like dandelions:
Shimmery and wistful it all seems,
While sleep binds me in irons.
The dark haunts me with forgotten smiles;
It whispers the future in my ear;
And all the past vainly beguiles,
For within it, there isn’t a single tear.
New dreams are dreadful and bright!
I can remember not even one!
In vain, I try to make love to night,
Under the eye of an unforgiving sun.
I heard an old song
Sing its pain;
It reminded me
Of us again.
Old songs do that:
Sifting their tune,
Cradled on lost stars
And a forgotten moon.
The words aren’t the same:
They are rusty hooks
And dried old flowers
In dusty books.
It always befalls
That the singer is me;
And what we were
Becomes his melody.
It’s three minutes
Of our past;
Yet, it’s these three
That will last.
She warned of a lover’s fate;
But I ascribed it to hate;
So, I neglected her view;
And fought her with words, too.
I am a fool in love,
Until push comes to shove;
So, when death came calling,
My heart was done stalling.
As promises lay broken,
While I pulled down each token,
Her words hung in the air,
“Most are not fools. Beware.”
Hearts Still Care 
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