POEMS

Morning

24, July 2020. 1:34. 

For entities without eyes, music has such a way of leafing through bodily vibrations, reading us. For doyens that don't know who we are, they have such a feat in seeing us clearer than we'd ever care to see ourselves. 

Hanging blinds of lunar, veiled, 

Bowed to margins lesser-shone, 

Daisies, shying from their home.

Pendulums; aviary-held.

Hundredth sliver— dusty trove.

Bed of blithers, heedless faun.

Withered rain, robbed by dawn,

Pregnant mind of fleeting woes! 

So, a delicate candor bliss, 

Dreamt of trains, of filtered pine, 

The sly night-blooming paradigms, 

And raven gyves that'd grown amiss. 

I felt to reach a broken bough, 

Dead of body, lightning-struck; 

Though, in a supine chasm, stuck, 

I think I rest to see it now. 

Morning's music played so new, 

Limpid, pure— honey'd suns. 

Seasons of the phasing one, 

Was it bad to have loved you? 

Unlike bairns or lusty hearts, 

Unlike mothers; mammal's love, 

But as my muse enamored doves— 

'Tis what sets love and I apart. 

Devised garlands, genesis-made, 

Broken veils, the deep ideas, 

Fresh fruition, followed asea is, 

Gratuitous, what the music gave. 

Leonine muse of handsome breath, 

I'd never whisper behested fate, 

Nor admiration of the great—

Poetic motion of your breadth. 

Yet trace into the sands of shrouds, 

Reciting golden mists of song, 

Unraveled art and so, lifelong, 

Obeisance to the sails, avowed. 

For what lingers in the bind, 

Nigh, aurora of morn, 

Kills the requiem of the born, 

Blights built in a yearning mind. 

Next phase is mine; adieu, old moon, 

Morphing retro, to a molden, 

Time of languish—now, is broken...

...Know me— I wish to see you soon.