Lavenders and lilacs
now paint these walls
that once was the fortress
of a noble youth; but alas!
the elusive fragrance
had joined the clouds
in a wind’s breath and
nowhere to be found is the grace
the heavens had blessed them once,
while they were still pure and innocent.
Here is a mural
wrought by the classic
art of Death,
wanting the reprieve of a
moonless night for its aching
blindness,
wonted to the glitz of an overriding
spectacle before an audience;
a hand, tangy as sickle and blood,
rustic as a pending spell of
nausea; which
scent not rivers of Victoria’s
Secret or Murasaki could quell,
neither the finest masks
could hold from being smelled.
Like the memories of wine and song
of a season that’s long since gone,
These wild impressions, like the scabs of wounds,
would peel from skin away from bone;
But, shall leave out a scar immortal
as van Gogh’s celebrated Iris,
visible only to the inward blue;
due to bear remembrance always
of the passionate Christian blood
that once set carpets burning,
glaring with flames the like of lovers’ eyes,
Curious and careful on all affairs
of the beating plum.
