You wake where shadows only mimic ghosts. A star is unleavened to bury sleep, Never so tremulous to break its tomb In the wine dark gallows that mimic me. The cliffs are small but diminish spires Her shadow is small collecting gardens; No famine would ever be more fictive To harness the mast that usurped sirens. Your tears are untethered but bury me Where youth is novel to misguide its mask; The waste of a rose and its velvet veil Unraveling the ghosts that wake as palls, The rain too tremulous without her mouth Withering the laurels that bury roods Deepening the moon and its tidal ghost, A wind that usurps the collyrium Broken but to wither her woken tears; His eyes are humid not to hasten ghosts. Her rood was a pallor that broke his mouth- Poplars too opal to diminish ash Threadbare as the pale that collapses me- The epistle a rose would not consume The skeins you swallow to diminish ink. I expire death to mimic beauty Never so much to seclude your absence,
Posted on: Tue, 18 Nov 2014 17:12:43 +0000