Sacred Heart / by Mickey

It ends, before you know

That murmuring haste still lust

After every departing child,

But why my dear,

Are your eyes never damp?

Are the words in white and black,

Again the sole play we stage?

Your blossomed lips too red,

Trace the plague

Of my ripening blade.

Lost in the crowds we laughed,

Exchanging gazes to our remaining days.

If only this blue hasn’t forsaken Rue Ramey,

Say, Sacred Heart,

Where mine is to be laid?

We have threaded upon the steps of giants,

But why the morning sat us through

A mere bleak cityscape?

The last touch is always the tenderest,

Fresh as a stranger smile,

All too familiar, like

A white lily caught in her first rain.

.