POETRY

Chamber's Dolor

Sheathed in shadows of mother's kiss. 

Night of tempests; brooding nights, 

Allot the starling's thievery, this, 

Nadir following childhood heights. 

Betides, the form of moons you took—

A world, it sits at night, wide open.

A haze of strains heard from the rook, 

Ensuring handsome charms were broken. 

What of the empty room of mind? 

Uncharted gates and pale unknowns? 

A string of charms left behind, 

And cover of your empress blown. 

In the latent, liminal tide, 

I like to dream of ancient things, 

On Mars or music's lulled dayside, 

I like to think it's what life brings. 

Of course the chamber's dolor lingers, 

Of course a trotting clock may leer, 

Yet in the youth of grazing fingers, 

I like to think it's ever near.