Was it the wind,
Or the roar of a plane?
The pages of your notebook are aflame.
"Hooray! I'm no longer a poet!"
You shout through the heavy
Scent of wormwood.
Per aspera ad astra.
Poems burn.
Verses on fire.
To hold Her close is your only desire.
Life is better than lines.
Eternity is for hopeless fools.
Immortality can go to hell.
Everything's been said, sung, and played.
You watch the sunset.
Beetles, gnats, wormwood.
You hold Her close and think:
"How beautifully it burns."
You watch the sunset.
And marvel.