Mercury hit the library
poetry books dropped in tears of melancholy
in spite of eating angels for breakfast.
Ashes spilled from red wine and meatloaves
inspecting us with skepticism.
The woman with blonde hair was a tiny girl
years passed and snow hit her upper lip.
Over the green hills, the Christmas trees
turn into young horses, running wildly.
Mercury will hit again
this time our conscience will perceive it
in the past.