Sweet Faded Memory

The scent of poppy haunts my drear-numbed sense, Be-casting with ill dreams my weary brain, And veiling my sick heart with indolence That madly throbs and draws upon me pain. As though of some black poison I have drunk, My eyes are blurred by shawls of nothingness, And like night’s cloven clouds, my soul has sunk Into the ocean of still quietness. My ear now rings with some faint voice, unheard, Wrung with the tuneless melody of shame, And, oh, my seedless heart is some chained bird Who craves to fly but deems constraint the same. I yearn to fly away, but cannot free Myself from this most stiff infirmity: The binding force of wistful dream and faded memory… © 2014 Gleb Zavlanov