Underneath the statue
Of stacked rubble
You picked from the ground,
Where your heart
Fell
And shattered
Like stars
On supernovas
There’s a beating story
Waiting to unfold
By him who once have told
The greatest irony in life
Of how one’s greatest love
Is his greatest undoing.
And that all these love
Will someday be ink
On the lips of pen and paper
And that all these pain
Will someday be poems
On your fingers
That caress the typewriter
By the open window
That invites that cold wintry
air
To help you carry yourself
As you fly above the statues and
rubbles.
