Pas de Deux

No, not two.
Not when the snow is melting,
before she took leave of the blushing clouds,
pierced by the harsh wind.

No, not two.
Not when the flowers are fading,
before they rose above the emerald sprouts,
poisoned by the lawful flairs.

No, not two.
Not when the leaves are falling,
before they golden in the garnet droughts,
fissured by the blind fiend.

No, not two.
Not when your senses are dying,
before they caught sight of the artful hours,
wasted by the heartless fairs.

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Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:51 PM  Leave a Comment  

For Life

No birth can come of this season,
as the heavens bleed at dawn,
her wounds marked by perfection,
though for imperfection I long.

For what of life I desire,
if not the beauty of a song?
To the voice of angels aspire,
to none but beauty I belong.

Published in: on 09/07/2018 at 10:00 PM  Leave a Comment