the nevers come in with the white tide
off the back of the bent balcony
where the widows go to smoke
and the rats commit suicide.
up from the gail, over the rocks,
whispers whip through the wind's tongue,
begging to be heard and held
by forgotten fathers felled by the sea.
let loose by lips of the lords
who languish over the land,
between where the horizon holds court
and heaven and hell hope for hearts.
the nevers arrive by night
and refuse to let go of love,
taking it all back down with it
as dawn dances up the hill.
everyone knows nothing lasts,
yet we all try to hold on
with our human hands
to things that are already gone.