Lazily, a boy with silvery hairs muttering requiem aeternam
lifts his neck at the piercing radiance skimming off the eyeglasses rim,
and there looms the glory, the spotless sea of blue,
varnishes of spring gloss fuming out of the French coronation robe.

The still-brisk branches hung bent at the weight of vivacity,
sight of maidens whose eyes and grace bath in the full warmth of light,
the kisses on the face of the river by the shower of half-bloomed petals,
just as the stillborn thrills of the beating heart to the splintered fingers of Moirae.

The time of adieu,
the season of life.
The mourning procession amidst the lustily caressing May breeze.

-Primavera, thou name be the sweet irony of the dying flowers

The evening wades in, and the coy face of the mountain blushes;
Thence strides away the man whose gaze speaks of premature nostalgia

Here the wind whispers the rosy delirium from the sakura tree at the far side,
the faintness lushly hazed away by the cloudy veil of bittersweet grey.

I stare up at the stars nightly,

Longing for the day we reunite in each other's embrace.
Only the glimmering moonlight that caresses your skin,
Varnishes the beauty that I admire so dearly.
Ever so slowly, I thread my fingers with your soft hands.

Your warmth extends throughout my body,
Only to be mesmerized by your smooth, silky lips.
Uttering these three words, I lean in for the kiss.

a voracious wrath vanishes
varnishes stick to all wounds
in the womb we vent the room

repel the wasps that wait on
the inner side of the window
for the light to toast them

the bulb is a wastebasket
with light stuck in it

Sunlight varnishes magnolia branches crimson
The pastel colored blue above our heads
Perfect worldly green gardens lay lovers
Smiling beings pleasantly at the Gates
This is not your place, the angel said

Wake up!

I suddenly opened my eyes
In this pitch black darkness
It's too late to hope
It's too late to pray
With a soul like mine

A carpenter touches me,
  feels length and texture,
    adjusts to perfect fit,
      varnishes till I glow
        with polished pride.

Aristocratic fists
  use my glossy guide rail
    to find their champagne boxes.
      They listen in patchouli perfumed privacy
        while I hear only distant chords
          of an unseen opera.

When the lifts fail
  bent arthritic fingers grasp
    and haul old bodies
      grumbling and groaning,
        step by step,
          to the circle.

But my favourites are the sticky paws
  of children ******* sweets
    hurrying to the pantomime;
      in their haste
        they leave a tacky sucrose veneer
          on my glassy lacquer.
        
          My sugar coating lasts
      until the complaining cleaners
    reset the theatre
for tomorrow.