The muse soothes my sweating brow
Paper cut trees silhouette the dawn
Shed shadows unforeseen on the drawn blades of grass
Minuet Ladybirds painted in scarlet and the depths of time
Fossicking in green drifts the lazy moonbeams
Patience treasures all that is born upon the earth
Lay my head softly lest it disturb the dead
Close these tired eyes and scan the insides for colours of red
I find that the candle shimmers in the passing of the precious light
One can only be given thrice in forgiveness of this love
Just in mocking I lay as one beneath the sun and stars
Left to be as the pleasure flows through me
Sleep as I wake in these times
Waking the timid butterflies soaking in the tepid light
Separate faiths lay in burnt stained hands
Not so long ago when the sun was shining
Fragmented and refracted prisms of harlequin jade
Scattered upon the ceiling wicked dreams
Lucid in fantism of sallow affect
Purse my lips in the maelstrom
I blow the dust from my powdered palm
Alone I can remember your face
Clearly I remember
Clearly I recall
Clearly I hear your voice
Clearly I soothe in all
Clearly I forgive
Clearly when looked upon in brazen light
Simply things marry
Clearly I dream when dead
12 comments:
Oh, a memory in beautiful words and drama. That ending really clinched it. This is magical.
the incantation like final stanza can have a haunting effect.nicely done again.
This feels like a dream to read it...to see the shifting views and colors...Nice work
Dead, not Dead, practicing to be Dead, wishing to be Dead? I could not tell, but wonder if it matters. Sleeping or not sleeping in a cemetery, next to my love, I would carry no thoughts, only images of the life we led.
I love the repetition in the last stanza.. Points well made!
You have included a glorious assortment of words in this piece - I love the paper cut trees. and the harlequin jade. The visual images fall so readily on the inner eye.
there is a great classical feel to your language and you are very deliberate with it from the beginning using it to build the tone...the paper cuts, blades of grass tot he dead...this is delicious POEtry...
I specially like the first stanza but your ending lines are lovely too ~
dreaming when dead, I like ~
the last stanza is perfectly intense
Very nice. Clearly I dream when I'm dead.
there is a tone in this that one has when speaking to oneself at night.
drifting words in low tones that speak in fables and imagery and say all the things that cannot be said of love and death and dreams.
Seems such a journey through your words and one that is art from the heart, collected, mourned, saturated, choked, tearful but balanced with a yearning that is profound if only the soul knows the depths of flexibility xoxo
Post a Comment