Like a shrill knife that cuts a gangrenous numb limb
the distance hurts our frail love secret bonds;
thee still dreams about me in love, young, tight, and slim
but skin wrinkles with Fall, Winter arcs the body, Spring bards
sing odes, but they echo in dirge; my Summer like a misfit
hides in shades, estranged from sun of thy couplet rhymes,
but thou is still chinned, with no grays, and quick in wit
Reckless, I hear, drunk in behalf of our old times.
Oh, but wake up love, I’m null to crave, the ghost
of a memory that canst turn twelve seasons back
or undo our apart years, for time is the host
spun from Clotho’s spindle yarns of fate and to crack
Libra code threads across thy heart chasm can’t be healed
but safe kept from madness axis with our love sealed.

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This