In Old Scribes Of Her

Shall I return to fading scribes of old?
That once with each a turn and covered page,
bereft a seeping fume that laden bold
and from that glyphic smudge - her cursive stage.

For still upon the tips of ink parades
the lissom bride beheld with gentled hand,
and prose's vigil neath the dust pervades;
that either I immerse within or strand.

Though lyric embers flare her ardent kiss,
embedded texts peruse a lover's loss,
then should the torment forge my own abyss
the depths shall shadow me amongst the moss.

At least in chasms; beloveds reel inside
so then shall I - where love has not yet died.