Maybe the air will crust sometime soon
and fall down in pieces of ideas and tunes
like gifts from a generous muse.

And maybe my slow beating heart
will echo from the emptiness around,
creating filler for this lack of sound
that oozes through the walls.

The birds would bring peace if they were doves,
but only crows hold loyalties now,
and droves of people could not change how
I feel without the color of love.

Maybe it's coincidence that all my bulbs burned out.
Or, is it god-given and metaphorical,
reminding me that love is magical and blind?
"Close your eyes!" it shouts.

But as the purple shades of night come,
I'll lay with snakes and spiders,
drink away the years,
and wait for a new lover.

For now, the crows line up in rows,
on wires, between telephone poles,
basking in sunlight I can't have,
dancing in the color of love.