Bask in the sunlight of a broken age, More fire than light; Rage.
A coil of thread as thick as the basilisk
That wound round struts and spires
Of the white castle.
The flag is blue and grey
Mess turned to pattern-
In memory of chaos, to order.
Garden like topaz;
Studded with dandelion,
Where no arm
Had dared weed.
Then studded with feet-
Still not truly touched.
But for a rough hand,
Cold. Stone.
The sun in your hair
at the birth of your death,
In eyes- now endless
But ended.
The garden is hewn
With ruby now,
No more than the flowers
Bow their heads.
YOU ARE READING
Poems!
PoetryPoems I'll add to now and then. Generally end up much darker than I mean 'em too..
