Old Passions (Poetry)

There are bones in the jar —
it’s our love affair’s urn
where the maybes and could nots
all tumble and churn

There is dust at the bottom
the dregs of our pain
our hopes for a future
and cruelty’s disdain

There’s an odour of burning —
the stopper’s not tight
those old passions are spilling
out into the night

As I light a red candle
and wish on a star
I hear the faint rattle
of bones in that jar