Walking in the Shades of Thorny Sorrow
All winters are the same, unhinged,
pungent, dare-not-to-show-emotions,
a succubae waking up from time's dust.
This horror, you know by now, is beyond
redemption. If only you settled for less,
the far-fetched skyline, mummified fogs
jesting amidst your wounds, pompous,
awash in levity, impalpable like a lover's
touch. You succumb into its shades,
knowing your sorrow no more propels itself
into a willable love song. So that the ever
forsaken-enigma may come to an end.
Anthem of friars, dark shadows never fail
to declare that even driven by acute despair,
one may still be entering into a cobweb
half-gratefully, of a pinned-up-aloft, never-
deviating cloister where the dead innocence
comes alive, to and fro, Seraph's shuttered chime.
2005-2-1
