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O Fall, let this lore of love be the last ~ I have long bled black-veiled roses of the widow’s requiem, rambling raw rues from an aching orchard, stomaching the sorrow, barely breathing a woman’s woe beneath my flesh, where every thorn preserves my pulse from paranormal peril, and every petal pauses to placate the pallid palate, as the leaf of life sleeps upon my lip, staining my skin with sensuous scents, reminding my soul that the twin flame keeps beautifully b l a z i n g ~ like sunsets amidst Sphinx’s silence, kissing the heart’s hideaway as phoenix-rain transmutes inner-terrors into a fearless field of ferocious flowers savagely stemmed to the womb of wounds… Yet, you, my merciful mentor, O heaven-sent solace, appeared like an indomitable spark ~ when the pain was inevitable, sleep unattainable, the sorrow inescapable, the darkness unbearable. You did not heal the painful haven ~ but laid skillfully an Eden of earth-angel ink, and the taste of your touch taught my sky to fight the thunder. I learned to hold on, still leaning in, never letting go, as neither dusk nor dawn can delude me… If this is the final metaphor, when the soul-stars dream and die, f a r e w e l l foliage, remember ~ I burn I yearn I turn sepia hues, autumnal time, forevermore, bride ~ eagle-feathered sun…

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