Snow Waltz

Thus so again I stand before
the gates of my dear old friends,
a wordless song for the days afore
the glory of your perfect cadence.

Gently the pastel airs enshroud
our peace from all mortal affairs;
as we pace o’er the earthly cloud
under a golden chandelier.

Through a lyrical haze I recall
flowers and fences above my grave;
sighs of your virtues and my fall,
in white letters the paths they pave.

In crosses the skeletal trees they guard
our sins beneath the livid air –
the troubles of a fleshly heart
in romances of the silence we share.

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Published in: on 04/02/2019 at 4:10 AM  Leave a Comment  

Kuda, Kuda

Is love an innocent flame
or saviour for a beaten soul?
Does love leave innocence aflame,
or bring life to the bitterest cold?

For what does the heart crave
in the flaring shadows?
For what does the heart rave
in the heartless hollows?

So often do the pages turn
to a tosca for the pages turned,
for the flares in a diamond urn,
for courage that fear had spurned.

Such are the seasons of buskin,
when snow falls upon October;
the flattering waistcoat of Pushkin
has parted with September.

If love must by jest be earned
and pass on their inky cloak,
alone shall his soul be burned
and perish in his nightly abode.

Let the roaring of the waves
take me into the deepest folds,
so that her most merciful graves
may bear our earthly sorrows.

Published in: on 03/02/2019 at 2:06 AM  Leave a Comment