The asphalt of the ghost, deserted town is old and split,
what was to claim upon the edges of sky's foreign moons,
my thoughts; redemptive souls emerging from the depth of wit,
designs that winters form with interlaced on walls, festoons.
The Mistral blows (my soul), lone slopes defines and ridges crowns,
inside the dreams embeds the windy drawls and teenage years,
the minds foresee, their state to evolute and be renown,
while my December eyes become, reflectors of cold's tears.
Along those roads, deserted towns become a threaded toy,
of Mistral calls, a song abandoned in a bard's old tale,
unerringly be whistled by the ghosts and gusts' decoy.
alike the blowing winds (my soul), stand tall, in their assail.
She drifts in Mists! A cotton fog and mystery's versed text,
upon a sculptured bark, her promised vision I inhale,
Was I so handsome in her eyes, dimension thus convex,
a splashing wave upon her wharf and she, the night's dark veil?
I saw her form surpassing voices' amplitude and fast
on skyward billows of adjoining rains thenceforth to glide,
was pre-designed and coarse the destiny her beauty passed,
in emptiness wind-gates that led to naught, in fog to hide.
Befallen Angels then transformed time's masquerade to wings,
I saw my soul to stare at the buffoon's dark colored face
Inside the winds, a marionette he was without the strings,
- oh, her aphotic eyes that stared in me, and her dark grace!
© G.V. 10-02-2013 All rights reserved
(Iambic Heptameter - first draft)