but menaces the sky with each passing hour.
They do not speak, merely glower into foreign thoughts
business like conversation their speech river draughts.
Their rotten hair, gray but not yet white and dead,
covers the orb where thoughts of the other have fled.
Her glowing eyes confess her unfortunate devotion
to the man who of her existence, has absolutely no notion.
The ripe pomegranate, unnoticed, has fallen from the tree,
no one realizes that only the worms see the absentee.
His poor flabby heart has been over-juiced with wrenching spite
he can barely see her eyes when she sneers from her pompous height.
Everyone knows that those lovely, shells from the sand
are hollow and all too soon become bland.
Through her uncleaned lenses she comes across a horror appalling
the sight of a shattered fantasy that sets her very insides crawling.
Love is a sunset that glitters in bright jewelled power
but menaces the sky with each passing hour.
-Pamplemousse
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