And our game is
the glide and the drop
that we play for.
Its the start and the stop
our time dearly pays for.
The win, lose, or draw
as we ignore scores
in a playful war…
Its the torn between
tournament and team,
the torment of miles between
where close covered hands are seen
by the threat of the fold of the dream.
I
see
no wood for the trees,
just limits and loss
and falling leaves;
falling for me.
You see
falling for me
as a mournful breeze
that cries at the cost
of the ultimate loss,
of me.
I see
an autumn scene
that tip-toed its trust
on the branches above,
for the promise of love,
and turning of us,
to we.
We see
well-seasoned lust
that sits on the cusp
as day turns to dusk
to dream, to greet,
the falling asleep
of us.
We see
no scene to believe,
no sign of reprieve,
just green turned to grief
as dying leaves
wilt under trees,
for us.
Authorial Intentions 