Elegy.
My words were lost. In winding lanes and upturned parasols. It rained like the last day in Nagasaki that washed away dried blood off of cadavers lost to political vanity. Politicians needed to visit brothels. The evening star was vermillion, serenaded by fading constellations. Lady night walked in with her gliding paramour, darting her poisoned tongue, piercing souls into delusions of faith.
My words were lost. In winding lanes and upturned parasols. It rained like the last day in Nagasaki that washed away dried blood off of cadavers lost to political vanity. Politicians needed to visit brothels. The evening star was vermillion, serenaded by fading constellations. Lady night walked in with her gliding paramour, darting her poisoned tongue, piercing souls into delusions of faith.
The Cathedral doors, closed to the public and the next morning, there was a holocaust inside. The cemeteries were flooded and the vultures refused to peck at the emanating stench. I was a believer tillI saw. When I saw I believed in something else. Most non believers still always believe that they don’t believe anymore. And nobody came for their funerals. Or if they did, only for the blueberry pancakes and cider. Oh well, the nonbelievers most certainly have elite tastes. I tried being elite.
I sewed thousand autumn leaves into an evening gown to match the deep purple orchid tiara. I decided to wear wild white lilies across my bosom and stuck a rose thorn in my wrist when I saw in the mirror, what I did.
Time.
Like the mysteries in your eyes. Waiting to happen. Spilling onto my shoulders. As I lift the weight of the world on them.You tug at my hair and spin me around. And I look into your eyes and there I lose myself. Like winding lanes.
Thoughts.
Like the times I run out of, under your umbrella to be drenched for the audience of your wonder. As you clap at my show. Glances at me you throw. Across pitch dark galaxies we roam. Cobwebs and cradles all into dust, where we come from, there return, we must.
Dainty girls in the arms of men, on gondolas in Venice, kiss under the arches of bridges and laugh pleasingly . The older men see them from the edges and on the way back home, buy flowers. Such is youth. Bubbling, intense and emerging. Find it.
Mazes.
Those words are wandering over vales and hills, floating across herds of cattle, in green pastures. Resonating songs of the shepherdess who frolicked amongst the skippant goat. The sun blazoned the
red flowers atop the canopy that was the mountain and like burning embers in your drowning voice, I die, this dawn.
Early morn, little darling, here comes the sun.
