sepulchers dry in the sun, as
peals from steeples ripple over
elysian fields – carry your name;
languorous laments
let go their boney grasp;
boundless in your beauty
on my palette, your color spreads
undulations in ribbed cages;
night wraps her budding moon,
destined to burn.


from Instagram: http://ift.tt/2qmmH3J

for J –

I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.

Edgar Allan Poe

part two

joy lept from my window
out before the morning
another flown to safer
never falters – poe’s curse
nevermore the chance worth
empty is my heart