You loved that shed; your mistress.

More time with her, than me.

Blue grey days, and starry nights

Did not tempt you away, and nor could I.

And when balloons tore at the black sky,

Burning trails of hate into the clouds,

The mother dropped her lead children, bursting 

Your heart, when hers was shattered to debris.

“No time at all,” you joked, halfway,

“I’ll build her bit by bit of every day.”

And you graced the garden all the more,

In stench of dirt-thick soil, boys and sweat .

And still the raging sky-queens soared,

With fear and passion, gunners roared.

Your wife, again she took you in,

Swallowed your soul with her wooden body.

This time the lead clouds won, stole you,

Threw flames, of love, revenge,

And burning, burning jealousy,

That smoked the air from your lungs

And piled you with orange bricks.

So here you lie, buried under her,

A hole in the garden, like you always were.