Are making love in an eggshell of satin,
We are somewhere between John and Yoko
And Jack and Rose.
There is no greater joy I will ever know.
North of myself, I am counting the steps between us
At this point in time.
The number seems immense and there is much sorrow.
Just west of myself, I am playing a clarinet
And swearing to only speak in its hollow tones.
Forever. A soft, mooing loneliness.
To the south, the rioting masses.
The horde angers, the graves undug,
The light and silence leak into the earth and all reeks of endings.
You ask, the solemn flowers upturned.
And I assure you, they are,
But only just slightly. And to the east. In hope.