To One Gone
Black is the night when tender living dreams,
Circle the skies with wax wing hints of mist,
Too fragile to fall, though falling it screams,
"Beware, beware the moonlit garden wrist!",
Its hand you knew upon your brow and tears,
Whose love ignored the trust it could not find,
The roots that never belong or so it appears,
To find only the boots heavy on your mind.
Touching the skin that covers your soul,
Of spices whose bite the snake must refrain,
From asking whose deed that blood did control,
What infinite being did it contain?
Never (did I say never?) did the world sleep so much,
As the night my lips to your tomb did touch.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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