Therapeutic it may seem, Illuminist assumptions claw To recollections which allude To that which was and is no more. Gone is history’s clear blue mode Associations lost to shade In jaded hopes of eons past To aspirant’s cold censored fade. Germans clawed to **** shrine, Eskimo’s to barren ice, Russians wept in baritone. Aspirations censored thrice. Reaching back to jewelled thought Dim as dust, as it may be, Gossamers of shades of silk All valuable as gold to me.
Now weeping in frustration’s craw Extending out for tendrils thin, Misting clouds in shrouded skies But tantalizing taunts begin… Fulfilment in a feather touch Of fingers stretching into dark… A trickle of a thread resumes As fragrant ghosts of recall hark!*