Poetic Cherubim

For she is too fond of old fashioned things, loves only what has been replaced by common sense and progress. It takes a hundred years for a mere object to gain it’s soul, age and beauty, love tarnished. She collects the survivors, the last trinkets left in Pandora’s box.

April is for indecisive clouds and letters to the past, for discarding those imaginary eggshells I’ve been walking on and opening windows, even if I let the moths in. I am kindling the flame in my little lighthouse so that you can see me, safe from the deck of your passing ship. Call me whatever you like, I’ve weathered worse than April showers.