Wild Impressions

     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.