Who am I?

No sooner arrives this reflective letter,

by the playful breeze of the wintry airs,

by a theme on Scriabin my sensuous ardour,

entwining and fondling my lover’s tears.

Her voice summons a past abandoned,

voluptuous songs from a greyed limbo;

a waltzing devil in the garden of heaven,

a page reminiscent of his nameless foe.

No souls were cast from his tender embrace,

how can he forget his prophetical easel?

No doubt an orbit marks a familiar trace,

he stood long alone beyond good and evil.

Vexed by my unworldly being,

how frail are the grounds on which I stand.

Yet are they not save my dispersed ink?

With a glass of ruby I dream in the sand.

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Published in: on 15/01/2017 at 4:29 AM  Leave a Comment  

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