My heart is a white canvas,
for autumn’s visit,
so I may to her
‘now of joy, now of grief.’
What hazy thoughts the haze may hold.

Apollo’s genius is the sword of Chronos
— bloodstained — for the
scarlet petals fall to their crimson demise,
over the white lilies disciples of Eros price;
the virtuous reprise is ‘soaked in gore’.

Is there a June at Saint Peter’s gate —
for where all your friends had made haste?
this lake slumbering under an indigo sky,
alone, in a boat who has lost her oar.

‘In those near final days I had visited you’
— those fleeting passages at times eternal,
a long fermata has him since imprisoned,
a ghostly longing carved all loves infernal. 

Keen — the wild roses, how vivacious you are,
adorning this wasteland with graceful scars;
yet all entwining threads must one day part,
art no more artful than two colliding stars.

Dreams, floating along a river,
are lost, to the melodies of Pyotr;
Recurring memories your memories elude,
as a quavering flame in the night quivers.

Published in: on 30/06/2018 at 10:54 PM  Leave a Comment  

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