Underneath All Of The Moonbeams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The angels cannot die,
Even though the heroes are singing from
The throats of your graveyards,
As it all takes awhile to be illuminated and
Then to be believed,
While your sorority has touched down
Upon the finish line,
And what about the vanishing bouquets:
Another word spent into the night
As the lovers make
Love again, telling their tales to no one
Outside of the heroisms of their
Very own bedroom
That bares their children, as it all takes awhile
To coalesce,
But then their existence cannot possibly be
Resolved,
But after the daylight, the honeymoons
Proceed in their hotel rooms underneath all of
The moonbeams-
As it all remains some kind of curse we were
Never meant to resolve.