Nothing will sway you now.
Not the wind from the West
that topples the neighbor’s tree,
not the tornadic hail pelting against
the house like stones reserved
for sinners and harlots.
The sound of shattering glass, is not
of the glass. The howl of the lone wolf
is not of the wolf. The streaks of rain
on my face, is not of the rain. Nothing
will sway you now. The road stretches
long and worn. The willows bend
at their waists, begging for the last gaze.
The color of sunset is fierce enough to
burn concrete slabs and stone skins.
You walk with the girl, your hand around her waist
in London, Venice, Rome, somewhere
where romance lives. You walk with her, toward
the fucking sunset, on the steps of Colosseum. Nothing
I say will sway you now. Not the splinters of glass,
not the broken heart of a wolf, the lament of storm,
or my Goddamned face.