In the breeze lies no breath
for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.
In every garden a pricking thorn
for every poignant rose worth keeping.
The tides wash over the sands of my soul –
wax me stagnant,
gorgonize me on the spot,
tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.
Erewhile it had not mattered,
but the name of her burst forth of every mouth
in the hopes the prayers were answered.
They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged
at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,
that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,
to spare myself of beholding her face.
Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,
and pouring ceased not thereafter.
The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,
and in her stead a young black star was lauded.
The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.
The sun alone perished without warning.