On a Night Train

The mazurs of Fryderyk remind me of my past,

the death of October, when all beauty is but dust.

This scene for me my dear friends recall,

a forelife of two centuries from this fall.

Again I vindicate the errs of my foretell,

two glasses of red and my vampiric bell,

into the morning with my fellow folks,

harmonising the most bewitching spell.

The second err of my mirroring gesture,

was the incarnation of a heartless sword.

My free heart rested on no measure,

yet how mellow is our interlacing chord.

Here I am deserted in a furnished saloon,

resting at my desk within a dancing mort.

The sorites is weaved into our floating tune,

bemused, into a black glass I fall.

Published in: on 11/11/2016 at 9:45 PM  Leave a Comment