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A fastidious link was sips to their fates
On the farside

Of reflections…                               …luminary

Crosshairs jink locked lips on late
Gone to dark night

Hiding in the furrow, buried.

On the darker half of a lunar face.


“The brightest lights burn out the quickest…”

…or some other cliché phrase.


You won’t forget the light in their eyes fade.


As their hands lose our gripping…

…fairytale.


The clock’s chime
rings different after that
and their final sup of water
tastes of ale
or whatever libation
spurs them on…

…as glasses clink…


…at the end of our fairytale.


© poormansdreams

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