verbs are becoming obsolete
nothing is blended in soft pastels
everything's in black
and white
love is no longer a promise
it's a long crossing to yesterday
a continent reachable
only when you row through dreams

but the past is always present in a poem
and never absent from a story
history speaks but we never listen
in our hardened hearts
emptied of spirit
in the end, who isn't up against god
like a shadow of a cut-out shape
reflected in a mirror

reality is unfinished business
light breaks from the
shadowy ridge
eternity is sitting on the rafters

i wanted to write about how beautiful
it was to love you
but someone else
will have to write that poem
someone else
will have to tell that story