by: Jane Le Vein
It was a sad, sordid evening
in Fools’ Garden.
We ate wine,
drank apples,
exchanged whispers by the fence,
whispers that didn’t make sense.
Her shape suspends
on a canopy accentuated
by falling stars.
Made a wish,
made a promise,
to not wander off that far.
But with the graceful way she walks
I can’t do nothing but just stare
as she drifted to the light
and left without a care.
We ate wine,
drank apples,
knowing never
it was our last supper
together.
Sad night, indeed
.
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