by davidchrzanowski

Clapping your hands
Forces my memories
To carry across a blizzard
Contained within a snow globe horizon.

A yearly moss rose; a myriad of talent,
Showing my age, and yours.
My arteries hold sounds
Your heart can’t hear.

Exit stage left to find a fool
Amid aging dramas
Of inconvenience and incoherence,
A cheer to latter days and later nights.

Meanwhile, all that is left
Of the stars and I,
Are dust-covered books
Left amongst curls of damp firewood.