Topsy-Turvy

The world’s gone topsy-turvy, a sea change rearranged for you.

I kneel, chapfallen, an enthralling tango for two —

Was Cupid’s gut stab meant for me? 

To screech in trenchant harmony, 

your throat’s violin, hitting the jugular chord.

I stare into myself through the executioner’s sword,

our love byzantine up to the guillotine when

I lost my footing and tumbled through neon clouds,

grasping for your hand but only slicing my palm.

Though, there’s no place on Earth I’d rather be,

than recounting your freckles in crestfallen misery.