Let Me Go.

Let me go, my dear beloved
I leave you with these parting words,
wealthier now than before we met,
more hopeful than the day we begun.
What lies ahead, I am unaware of,
but surely it can not surpass
in brightness, the day we dreamed,
in lucidity, our innocent hopes,
in taste, the bread of yearning,
in warmth, the fireplace small depleting,
in color, the wine drops running hastily
upon our goblets old yet priceless.
All I am sure of, is I am sure of nothing,
what lies in wait for me in the dark,
but of all the suns spent carelessly
and your gentle touch in the morning,
I regret nothing, my love, I regret nothing.
Let me go, for the heavens hold
the dear departed in sweet embrace,
but rest assured not nearly sweet,
not nearly sweet as yours my love.

The Silk Song

This life a weave, and such a glorious one,
all our dreams but the thread we spin
and when the spool of our will undone,
this life we lead, in its fall rests thin,
how many moments, vague though present
caress the earth our quivering knees,
while the hopeful now left for hope yet absent
like naked weeping lost mulberries.
In this spring of escaping time,
how many leaves must fall unheeded,
how many yarns of this silk benign
must we spin for our souls unneeded,
Perhaps there is more, beyond the folds
of hanging lies our lives have been,
and amidst the sound of slipping gold
lulls the siren dubbed the unforeseen.
But among the adhering, unfeeling beings
there are a few who cease to long,
fewer still are the hearing, seeing,
and only some who discern the song,
the song of life, not that of silk,
while the boughs mourn and mulberries weep,
as the life woven by a life a’wilt
in only death can this silk we keep.

Of A Wound and its Tale

I limp alone, with a hand on my breast
content I tried for the one I loved best,
clasping my cloak, tight in my hand
rushing to flee, from this dying land,
for since you have left, so has the red,
from the roses left rotting, rest of them dead,
the dirt in my wake, rising so lofty,
reminds me of the grass, once growing so softly
And now that I reminisce, I do of your hair,
a curtain of black silk, in the arid air,
your sunburned arms, and Apollo the cruel,
yet visage non dusky, myself but a fool
held no shade, but silence so dear,
awaited the sunset, the vanquisher of fear,
but the only twilight, the omen of dark,
came therein, ushered a truth so stark,
it imprecated patience, and cursed my being,
blind is a man, whom with eyes unseeing,
looks to the horizon, for the end of the night
but dares not invoke, the sun from shear fright,
A moon it was, that seemed never to wane,
red and rising, to the sky in disdain,
the only hope, was the coming of dawn,
but the sun would be yours, forever and anon,
and Lo! it came, casting a sullenly light,
drowning my world in its melancholy sight,
Drying the wells and wilting the leaves,
Filling the air with my woeful heaves,
That was the time, first when I knew,
price of my bliss, was the memory of you,
but everything fades, and dreams are a part
of losing the ones we hold in our hearts,
let it be known, you did not leave alone,
and left but a wound, to call but my own,
Today in the noon of this undying sun,
no place to hide, and no place to run,
and although it glows now furious still,
it follows what seems her obstinate will,
to make me repent for the heart that I lost,
by burning my own, with the light in accost,
for I left you O woman, to an uncaring lover,
and the hole in my heart, is the one I now cover

Lucifer in Jerusalem

God has not summoned me, nor have the heavens,
but as prisoner of providence, I gather my will,
for the path to Jerusalem and the kingdom therein
is sodden with tears of generations still,
leave I, my refuge, for it remains no more,
memories of eternal dreams, dust in the wind
shattered goblets lamenting ‘neath my steps sore,
wine trembling in blood, a scarlet sans rescind,
par the threshold of home that stands in ruin,
guarding, attending to phantoms of reigns,
droops the velvet once our whispers blew in,
while joy melancholy faithlessly feigns,
slumbers closure thus upon my waking bed
betwixt the cast folds of this silent day,
and I the breathing, now living nor dead
servile to God nor man this way,
gait of a blind man, blinded by abhorrence,
lost to the journey from Jericho to here,
“Jerusalem must burn”, my tongued remonstrance,
Arab or Jew, less I could not care
Lo! Yonder stands the blood tainted dome,
Jerusalem is burning! Jerusalem is burning!,
I feel like Lucifer, who is already at home,
then his feet are turning, thus my feet are turning