winter’s waning days,
sorting symbols of passing.
Decks of death cards, dealt-
to hide your face.
Rusted relics, reminders-
of days scratched deep in skin
fish hooks and fossils, folds-
of our shared history.
The glittering gems of yellow glass
scattered on a boy blue carpet.
Reflections of an oracular truth.
Sorrow seeks sense in shattered folly,
no logic exists and-
chaos is spread on December gales.
At the end I realise.
I have misplaced your face
and lost the colour of your eyes.