Chorus

I do not mind the darkness, or the cold;
The fog and noise almost refresh my heart,
As tokens of the past. There is an art
To spinning, aching, and becoming old.
The aftershock, the lies we have been told,
Our love, real memory, all break apart
In time, in no time, like the gestures, smart,
Fashionable, and smooth, too late to scold.

I only bring you late, faint praise once more.
What can I say to honour you? Unborn,
My words press on my tongue; in semaphore
The trees, bred by the wind, turn leaves to mourn;
The summer halts; I falter, and a score
Of nature's minions chorus me with scorn.

Our Hearts, part 29