There’s a crooked humor to every love story
Like fallen autumn leaves of pearly ivory
The elegant vintage wine or a shock of hot brandy
Or the snowy summer beach they both needed so badly.
And then a wind of acid brings the house down
There ain’t a single rum left in the entire desolate town.
Another gust, he gasps and trips, bleeding from his crown,
Wonders whether the world shot up, or did he just go down.
Then he stands up, laughs in mirth and pity
Sings his golden ode ablaze and wakens the acrid city
The fallen now realize they should consider themselves lucky
For the memoir of a broken star can make a drab sky so pretty.