Blood trails on the mossed Greek cheeks
The Memories' eternal catch but a wink in the cemeteries
My hands are made of spider webs,
Mine own heart, of shards
Fly, away they fly blue and white butterflies

A wine glass rolls in my hand, in my red lips.
Here stands Mona Lisa in my ethel funeral,
My abode so criminal: black leaves,
wrinkled lake, and dusted music box

A haunted castle in my spectral soul has
A marble floor extending its arms
To the mosaic of stained glass made
Of old apparitions

I, hopelessly romantic
Under the arch of an inscrutable moon gate
My clandestine tears on love letters
Stained with times and cherry wine

My rose is my wand so shy
Spellbound together like a parchment of decree
To the concaving world for a long farewell
Anonymous me! A man without pedigree

By the ruins of far nymphaeum, where
A garden of sculptures echoes underwater,
Where lost dwellers sleep of inarticulate tears,
I submerge like a goddess who lost her firstborn

On the cliffside where lobelia blooms
Wait I motionlessly amid the gyre of speeding seasons  
Hidden like burnt legends of gods
Like a page in the Library of Divine