I enter the gardens of heaven where sin and virtue are blossoms of the same trees, though painted in different hues their bouquets are quite indistinguishable from each other, and a piety of heart offers no protection from their perfumes.
In these dark woods she burns like fire eyes of earth that promise life yet tell of death she is the priestess who guards my desires through winter’s night while growing them anew like the spring, wrapped in painted vines her tendrils seek out my madness and wrap it in the sanity of her embrace
now 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.
some days, as young shoots of hopeful green come my lines into the light, on others, such as today must they battle through frosted earth searching, straining for cracks and ways to emerge from the frozen darkness.
The tall elm writhes and sighs at your touch a gasp from spreading boughs as your unseen fingers find places never known by the lesser elements she scatters her leaves which turn and trip a terpsichorean flight of wayward grace upon your breath.
Naked, she shivers, though not with fears, save the fear you will not grace her with another kiss.
Night bird untamed by the hand of man she holds no court for his unnatural laws and commandments Night bird primal woman first sister obey but yourself that man may find his truth now you have flown. Night Bird Eden’s undoing was not of your art for you are not artifice nor folly that part was played by part of man.
I write in voices other than my own this cadence comes from ghosts within whose turn of word and way is other to me no long, strong hanging consonants no slipped or drooping syllables I try so very hard to hide and yet … … if they were to inhabit my lines, I would not sound like me, the me who writes in voices other than my own