Be we whom are enchanted,
to thee and me

‘Oh can you hear the poets of ole’?
Like a sea of cosmic sirens whispering,    
beckoning to ruinous liquid tear shores?
And yet a fire burns in dulcet serenade,
a phoenix sweeps by in offering
lonely nights starlight winter quill

─ Driven brittle illusions thus we write,
a poets song that cannot be sung,  
A poetic graveyard summoned,
where diamond dreams never die

─ To thee and me

A private world born of poetry,
─ be amber and obsidian secrets told,
Seek you in a box of Pandora,
Thy gift, a slip of mirror you in sparkling glass,
a puzzle to be a line in write,
and thyself beautiful it shall be,
and so, it is written,
‘Where pretty words bloom and bleed,
And the last precious flower is kissed goodbye

─ in a poets dream  

And so it be pendulous contemplation for a  
Raven hunts within unrequited,
spilling love, blood and seed,
ectopic words bud and grow in raining malignant-need,  
born in flurry of prose to be read golden,
read free

Our incense blood be thrilled in a silent perfumed tomb
Adorned ******, yet breathlessly unholy,
etched on distant wings weaving,
Capturing grandfather’s time,
In a garden of amaranthine words

─  For thee and me

© Arnay Rumens (ASPAR) 07 2016