The Great Storyteller
pens ink to the wind
Pressing pen to its paper skin
shredding its word on the taste of rain
its drip of spirit in deep refrain

A sweet scented memory
echoes and burs
A woe of regret weeping
high in the nest of its underworld

The humid mist of nostalgia
rests its net oer the black veil
Sinking its face to its deep blue belly
Its pale faint ***** in her sleeping beauty
claims its kiss to widen its wake