Blood trails on the mossed Greek cheeks
Memories’ eternal snare—just a fleeting wink in cemeteries
My hands are made of spider webs,
Mine own heart, of shards
Fly, away they fly blue and white butterflies
A wine glass rolls in my hand, against my red lips.
Here stands Mona Lisa in my eternal funeral,
My abode so criminal: black leaves,
a wrinkled lake, and a dusted music box
A haunted castle in my spectral soul,
Its marble floor reaches toward
The mosaic of stained glass,
Wrought from old apparitions
I, hopelessly romantic
Under the arch of an inscrutable moon gate
My clandestine tears stain love letters,
Worn with time and cherry wine
My rose is my wand so shy
Spellbound together like a parchment of decree
To the concaving world for a long farewell
Anonymous me! A man without pedigree
By the ruins of far nymphaeum, where
A garden of sculptures echoes underwater,
Where lost dwellers rest in unspeakable tears,
I submerge like a goddess mourning her firstborn
On the cliffside where lobelia blooms
I wait motionless amid the gyre of speeding seasons,
Hidden like burnt legends of gods—
A page in the Library of Divine
.
