The sensual, but sans the usual fluff,
may flow in love made to slow
the dash of time to what is bound
to abide, bidding adieu to everything
that wouldn't stand what beauty brings
from within one's till now sleepig heart,
suddenly filled like a flower, crowning grass,
in the glory of becoming a new living light.
The sand of moribund and fevered senses,
dusting off once majestic and regal mountains
bruised by cutting storms and countless winds,
builds in vain its way too early shapless castles
by the shores of ancient seas which can never mind
the horrid, screechy howling of the forlorn soul
which its merchants exchanged for a hollow image
on the caving wall that grinds her eye to grime and smut.
No comments:
Post a Comment