morning chorus penetrates the sun
down in this shuttered box
where each eye opened sees you
as you were and not the you, moved on,
has likely morphed over the weeks and years
of relentless changes laid between us
and our less flattered present selves.
except the songs still sing of our good deeds
for all the mess we made of trying on our union.
let the clock roll over and redeem another hour.
I've no more time for dreaming of the past.
my age fails, hatred rushed towards its end
on every missile launched and threat cashed
in the blood of some other innocent.
somehow, the perpetrators never seem to die,
while lovers fade into a dust blown vapour