Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Four hours past ten

fog scales the riverbank,

winter snares another songbird

My love,

our rage, caged in November

breaks its bindings,

restrained no longer for traditions sake

for ours is a domain of sorrow

hand crafted and laid down between

streetlights

when, at last,

your melody slips its gear

and the collector of curses

collects another curse,

our fate, ever-waxing,

cleaves itself upon

a sphere,

there, at idealisms end,

we begin again