I chase numerical dreams for vocation
ever grasping for untouchable horizons,
counting sand granules
piling leaves in size order
according to shades of ochre.

Then release
to hobby with words
build castles of sentimentality,
sparkle yonder meadows with dew
wetted by inner calligraphy.

Poetry to feather my dust -
echo pain-stained syllables
resounding morosely bound verses,
liberating caved bats
flapping to rhythms
pen strokes.

Launching boulders
onto unvarnished whiteness
once rolling to and fro
on my emotive wolds,
grasslands may grow again.

Pasting tokens of lost love
shrouding texts with torment
stamping lingering wraiths,
least they not prance
for a-while.

Worlds drip-dry here
under auroral poetry
a chance to breathe;
fresh crisp air -
of expressiveness,
I arrived - stayed.

She was never one for churches;
the incense smells and clanging bells
priestly tells of Ave spells
the window tap from birches
last place you'd find her are churches.

Tho' a seraph aglow was she
of soften lips and rosehip tips
her sweeten grips did caress my hips
as passion flowed by decree
till life's source seeped and died did she.

I don't ever recall her in satin
now Goth's her plume and dark her tomb
in wreathy gloom my heart in loom
engraved in solemn Latin;
radiant tho' does she appear in satin.

I drench in rain from her kin
no words dare, heal their despair
each whimper and glare - a wraith I bear
as death against life did win
dripping, dripping off waters from her kin.

To the golden emblem above the dais
I whisper a hymn, out of me to him
light her husky dim and all her limb
and if she'll raise - onto you I'll praise
and worship you upon this dais.

Not often granted, even in churches
for love is lost, esprit crossed
my mind in frost, our past is glossed
'it dawns now my love' - a whimper searches
'why you were never one for churches'.

Confession, me? Could I repent my time
And weary be, my pupils then to see
far-gone the dreams, beheld and shined my prime
it's all it seems, to rest and die with me.

Invent a past? The silence is the truth
and took at last, my pain where I had asked
goodbye old sun, the veil of haunted youth
the sorrow won, there I am now to cast.

One only song? Another may have sung
that here i'm strong, and here I could belong
to live by means, that spring the hearted young
my heart it cleans, the journey I prolong.

Yet here I lay, to burn in bright of day
I yearned the way, to rise but here I stay.

Partake no heart, with what you've done to mine
and leave no token lipstick stain to burn.
For you already swim, in comfort wine
that drowns the cells within my chest to turn.

Then plaque; unused desert will render mold
with sickly smells, your cancer love bequeaths.
I banish each recall of you; untold!
Retaking wind, from out your image wreaths.

Yes clutter none, no more in halls of love
and leave the healing, burden past to me;
to pray uncaged, my heart's own wounded dove
to love again, and revel love to be.

Now take your poisoned love and part my heart
for I shall heal, and bid my love, restart.

Recoiling from the mirrored death, I gasp;
since when did time then bring on wrinkled fears
where skin unmolded youth from out its grasp
and left behind this cast, reflecting years.

That sudden, darken dawning sight unveiled,
but wounds overt, are not as quick the eye
yet how I'd missed my failing, form detailed,
immortal dreams had schemed; to age defy.

Ah! Best my early days knew truly not
for I had lived as ever I'd be fair,
and if that time revealed this torrid rot
I would, then linger onward, tho' of wear.

I'll take this crinkled skin, for I were young!
And spent as tho' to age, knew not my tongue.

Despite a lonely glaze within my chest
that steady beat still drummed a pattern true
and had not missed; as lonesome would behest,
but pattered onward tho' it were anew.

Until the fairest gaze with hands sateen
caressed and conquered in, with dainty feel
that stroked, and wrought to change what peace had been
to tap behind my breast her fervent zeal.

At will, and touch she spurred a thumping pulse
as tho' my core were drums, and she'd out-play;
a trancing mood no man could then repulse
but let the beauty dance and waltz her way.

My gentled rapping churned, her grace outdone!
To thwart in that was mine, till then, she'd won.

If I could shrink an ailing body piece
then from my chest dilute the torrid pain
that billowed when your love had parted lease
and drowns me in; a churning, scalding strain.

Decrease the ***** till the burning yields
and donor none, such grief is best to waste,
dispose where to; from other cores it shields
let feast by creatures, used to bitter taste.

If left with none to love, repose to sleep
in dormant I, then have no blood to give
for hurt would have no muse to reach as deep
nor then again let lovelorn wounds relive.

O' take this beating ball of lover's tar!
To drain her out my pulse, and mold no scar.