it is the dawn of this inamorata.
love is
the dew
dropping onto
the soul,
takes in it
silence would,
a cacophonous
trace of song.
love is
written,
for love is
born
to the
structure
of a
rose.
it is the dusk of this inamorata.
love is frittering
back to the inconsolable
noise, trickles
back to rivers
and onto
the unseen,
the fading out
to smallness
of which flame
lets go,
a solitary ember.
love has emerged
with hands empty,
poised to cull
this structure
of a
rose.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
it is the dawn of this inamorata.
love is
the dew
dropping onto
the soul,
takes in it
silence would,
a cacophonous
trace of song.
love is
written,
for love is
born
to the
structure
of a
rose.
it is the dusk of this inamorata.
love is frittering
back to the inconsolable
noise, trickles
back to rivers
and onto
the unseen,
the fading out
to smallness
of which flame
lets go,
a solitary ember.
love has emerged
with hands empty,
poised to cull
this structure
of a
rose.
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