Francesca

“Francesca”

Some people coming, others going.

The clock never knowing, the time of day is it showing.

Pink cherry blossoms are falling in the midst of a wintry snow.

There is a dark mist in frigid air.

Life isn’t really here.

It’s there.

Doesn’t have any time to care.

Francesca’s affair of the art.

A pineapple’s sour tasting tart.

She got off the red apple cart.

Seasons have color, but no end, to the start,

An orange-red pyre in a flaring fire.

She quenches my heart, of its pithy desire.

Can’t get us much higher.

Sung in, the choir.

Love the lost forgotten.

Always living, misbegotten.

 

Jon Billet