To Accede Into My Own Desires. II.
A treatise in the eye of nightfall
Severed by my tears in hope, in desire,
Upheld in breadth of bell flowers,
My hope arises, attested to divinity
Immersed by a winter season, deemed solace,
As the solstice nurses the night to dead squills.
And I pray, inclined to the retired hues of sandhills,
The moon had lowered its light to my hands,
As though I was passed by its shadow, never forgotten,
When the dark dusk covers the squill, a pack of doctrines
Laid memory in sight, emaciated by the mercy,
The cries caressed my overlapped palms to the words I impart
As these alone could not touch me.
The pit of the moon falls, equally robbed, derivable from the light,
As it pricked my fingers, antagonistic to the soul,
And I lie among the moonlit plutonian where the sea ends,
Adrift from darkness or insanity among hands of frost
When I cross them, nightly parting, fading in silence,
Whispering alone asunder by an educed branch of the dove’s tree,
I wake to a voice that stilts the sights, lost among me,
The lost idyll, mingled formally as virgin, unveiled delusion,
As it lied overhead, cried to the plucked fingers, my song,
Into the garden, enclosing, as I let go, my song,
The night had passed, half in the forgiven darkness,
Midrise, upheld by scarce disturbance,
Among the wind when I close my eyes.
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