sing the strings
of free leaves dancing
to the tune of
old nero's bow
the melody rising in the hearts of the gods
and the fate that has often been named
sorrow
after the way her lips leave the taste
of half forgotten summers
lingering ever in her kiss

long shadow
like the scythes swinging in the field
and wine glasses amiably
more than half empty now
come sleep
like grapes fat and red
and dreams mostly
forgotten
their fragile veneer burned away by just
a touch of morning sun

a thunderstorm
under your thumb
and the present lack of greenery
eases the effort of natural
erosion
of mole-hill mountains
so much dust

pheonecian purple
faded
like jesus
god or not
on the cross
as eyes gently roll back to closed
in divine agony
it is at the least true
that the sun will rise on a new
day

an impression

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