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