Ichor
They flow,
Insipid and slow,
Like infinite moments
of wistful longing.
Like clasped fingers
that disentangle
at Bon-voyage.
Like old sand-glass
That fails to catch
irrevocable times.
They merge
Once in a while,
In a moment of
epiphany, as two
droplets fall for
each other,
perchance.
They reflect a
blameless, radical
glow of white,
as they slowly hide
a blurred, blurred world,
Beyond the veil of
untold gray.
Beyond an unmade dream
That grows steadily
In an intrepid exuberance.
That slows the inane life
You live,
For long-stretching moments
As you skip
a heart-beat or two.
And you forget
what happens to the
rained city-night that
remains behind a
mellow curtain of
nameless grace.
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