My portrait is hidden in my basement;
The azure paint,
Like skies of June,
Is flaking like the waning moon,
Revealing a monotone landscape.
The hyacinth smell,
Is usurped
By dry, withered grass.
The serpent,
Dream-like,
Slithers
Through the underbrush,
Of the tree
From which I hung
My soul.
Let me back into
Paradise lost;
A blind man searching
In a room full of girls
For his lover.
I’m searching for what
Was lost,
For the haven
We abandoned,
While the serpent
Slithers ever closer
To my
Swaying soul.