For Jessie James, who likes picking up remnants from ruins.

I couldn't have said it better.

Unluck

Alfred Yuson

Name of his star was melancholy.

When it shone the sky dropped everything else,

even the moon took umbrage in mad shadow.

Name of his pain was rose of folly.

When it moaned thorns turned red within his hand:

deranged, delicate.

Name of his dream was the song sullen.

When it smirked, sleep's very sadness sailed past fringes as if angry, as if...

Name of his eye was the vow broken.

When it gazed round corners it saw nothing but dead end.

(Name of his love was best unspoken.)