Mortem Artis

is set aside the golden lyre
forgot the pointed quill
the canvas stretched remains unspoiled
the wheel it sits quite still
no strings to sing a lover’s song
no ink a heart to spill
colours crack upon the wood
as art requires life’s skill
dust has gathered on the dreams
that fuelled his ballad’s fill
the muse has left the vacant form
no more to drive his will.

The Rose Sleeps

lo! the rose sleeps in her grave
sheltered by no stone
no resurrection for her save
when winter’s gales are blown

for the summer’s warmest showers
have dried to death’s cold hand
and the harvest’s gifted hours
are stolen from this land

so the rose lies in her grave
blackened foul decay
no raptured resurrection save
the memories she plays.