In Merciful Feelings

In the summer shades of Eden,
waning like a crescent moon
my face of cold stone falls to ash;
the aging roses imbued upon my skin,
would fall unto the winds and die in your velvet hands.

So faint are memories,
and distant within my bloodstream;
how far from my tongue
but close to my heart of stainless glass,
and sorrowed are the edicts once sung.

Were not tears enough,
wept and like rivers of guilt at best.
I laid kisses to rest,
dead (colourless as the dawning sun)
your soft lips,
and mine, a lit with only warm fire.

No frigid mourning -
- a shadow's footsteps beneath my face,
so bittersweet like the wine I drink alone.
No sympathy,
hollow agony whistling within my bones;
I tread upon ancient sands,
eagerly awaiting your artistic beauty to be within my hands.

Oh thy pastel portrait of
God-lent grace,
beneath my fingertips, traced,
a myriad of melodious flowers,
would only loneliness within the past be enough for me?