Swirling Smoke

They say the fog tiptoes
and fall snow gently blows.
I have heard of fingers of smoke
and how they gently swirl
until the fire angrily slashes.

Tear drops freeze to lashes.
The troubled heart smashes.
Day's sun turns night dark,
and birds sing, owl and lark.
Somewhere between cliche
and reality is life and love.

If it were up to the cooing dove,
who we stand in rapture of,
life would consist of seeds to eat,
and feathers combed neat
and not really much more.
Then life would be smoother.

I remember being your heart soother,
when we loved one another.
Now our love is broken and wasted,
like forbidden fruit, once tasted.
The only thing solid left;
tears clinging to your lashes.

Now the fire angrily slashes,
accompanied by a gentle swirl
of the ever present smoke.
Our forever gently crept away
like snow blowing and fog tiptoeing.