The world, alas, is far too rushed to ever tell the truth.
Two doves flee like untold secrets from the lane
Where fallen frangipani moulder. Sweet decay.
Behind and up, the hillside’s clad in mauve petals,
A decade’s worth of candy wrappers cast
Aside in moments by adolescent hands.
These hands. These hands are holding hands
In fervent, sweating, anxious rhapsody.
Aching out hilarity, too close to see the comedy.
A ten year old with awkward teeth, all knees
And elbows, nestles in the crook between the boughs
And spies upon the lovers, mystified.
The world, alas, is far too hurried for the truth.