The comet tail has sliced the sky,
And rainbows with it sink the sun
Beneath a springing autumn tide:
A will which never will become.
The dust of spirits coat the walls
And count from numbered square to square.
Their flightless wings, which trick the skies,
Dissolve her memories into time.
And all around there lays the wreck
Of love and art, which break apart,
And carve their sorry tales away,
Into the pointlessness of life.
With watered crown and weighted wings,
She leans her heavy bones on bone.