It is memory.
It is memory.
I was born off the shoot or seed
It was a spring, wounded by silence.
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.
On moorlands, summoning fate,
Alone, viceroys break
Every pretty tear that rises
it’d fade away as a facile scar,
And blood from a gentle sea.
And I go under the facile crystal flames
That embrace me into the settled claret bloom
And when I abandon the sights,
I admire the carnations where they lay
Will you be by the river? My shadow stays.
What would it leave to the torn skin where lights retreat?
As I wonder, I know it will be away.
I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls
The northern river kneels, beating pearls,
As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.
Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone,
Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream
That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set,
Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again,
That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn
Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland
As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.
the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists
through royal orange tinged ozone cloak
where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles
Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost
A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore,
Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose,
I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song,
That slightly breathed through the muted shore.
The dripping willows through the fragility of the dream
Makes the numb candles point to a dead fortnight
Surrendered to the blinding rivers that I would soon forget
In this winter dream; where no leaf crosses the river,
Where no dream is upon the weak bough above the sea
Shines above, the light that finds
The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower,
Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds
When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
And when the shadowed sea slicked,
The dead moon of the sea was watchful,
And in its glare, with thy dead streams,
Lapped once with earthly stars,
And there birthed the era to be
As when the shores collapsed,
Through the depth in the given shores of vague death,
I’d see it go beyond the moons that tided red,
With their rims of eminence through the plated stars
And that sobering wind that drew to the shallow, strange waters
Shadowed skies that plum
The heart of infants, a strum,
Moved through bristles of walking wind
Kissed the dell once a moment,
And I’d dwell through lonesome seas.
With an alone eden from the moor beside
The kisses of the shines of that muttering moon,
And gently, proceeded by hysteria, was a moment
To expire of ghostly dreams beyond the moans of tolling winds
I’d laid my hand, pale to the moans of wind,
Wearily drifting; and life is a dark flame
That could make the wilts of flowers wraith