:: Memoirs ::

Sleeping Sonnet

My love is dead and will not return.
The kingly butterfly has flown its last,
Now with feelers feeble and pollen-burn;

My love is dead and will not return.
The hundred minutes of a hundred years,
Wear the veil of the months in tears unlearn,

My love is dead and will not return.
The jolt of your skin on mine in sweet respite,
The splintering time that has cracked despite―

My love is dead and will not return.
The poet is a beggar whose art is sin,
The beggar is a story that should not begin―

My love is dead and will not return.

***

Tonight

The streets tonight are old,
Dark with the tar of separations.

The shadows tonight are cold,
Deep in the bruise of affirmations.

The youth tonight is sold,
Bought by the truth of desperations.

The heart tonight is gold,
Sunk by the weight of defamations.

The thoughts tonight are told,
Spoken to the priest of desolations.

The words tonight are bold,
Printed on the page of devastations.

This night tonight―not mine to hold,
Song to be sung―verse of culminations,
This night tonight.

***

I am your ghostwriter. In the memoirs of your memories I will stay, and in the moments between the moments I will go.