too real, too old

my eyes are my own sky,
as the trees of October
cloud into black anonymity,
these clumps of memories,
etched with a pagan's finger
across the face of the moon,
that orbits away from you
tears begin to climb
from the corruscation
of my heart dreaming
at the bottom of a well,
where i circle the stars,
my heart magnifies -
remembering the cold
that has gone into a haze
of ashen oblivion -
the fires we built
to quench the rain after
we have gone, we've gone
chasing room from room
the ghost of lovers
we could barely hold
in a heart too old,
too real for something
the life in us can't see
before the light falls away,
and we burn one last time,
for darkness to hold us