They harvested hope, plucked stars
from an unsuspecting sky.
A sickly harvest, diseased lovers
drowning in a sea of care.
Love broke inside them, crescent cutting
through their bespoke locks.
The crescent of madness crept across
the astronaut’s thoughts.
The astronaut’s wife, despair’s calendar,
pages filled with fraught and fear,
The tide marked its calendar on the beach
in rings of rotting weeds.