In the hills, the clouds rose like wisps of smoke above the horizon’s cusp
Where the sun touched land, the land warmed, momentarily, until the gust;
Lovers laid beneath those clouds of smoke and wisp, waiting for the night
To come on so suddenly, for romance to unfold – torrential strike of vitality
Burning red-hot, crimson coals chilled by the hatred brought by cold.
Soon, the lunar eclipses blotted out the tentative sun, an unraveling question –
The ellipses dotting across this darkest night until the love lasted only so long
And everything once deemed righteous, worthy, or of pure will, wilted into
Ravished ashes on the ice-ridden ground, and the clouds rose up again like
Spirits in western ghost towns, only alerting me to the frailty of love, the innocence
Of time, and the malice of man.