Every now and then
a poem coiled in scroll of an acumen,
inked and bruised, inflamed in acuteness
of what brandishes in the heart and ken,
time and again,
bows like an olive branch
on the beak of my pen.
The garden so often
is afire in autumnal glow
when your art
smothers it within my woe,
before by the prod of time
again
splinters and tears apart.
The blossom is so brief
before in the flowerbed of ephemeral grief,
in it disbelief,
founds the motif
of its perpetual relief,
to rise,
after it withers and dies,
not under the skies
but within the frame of some canvases
unto the irises of your eyes.
The splendours are to fade
by the aging
swinging blade.
The countenances are to wrinkle,
their lines soon be strayed,
before your thorn-tormented fingers
brocade
the tumescence of their lustre
upon the portrayal of
an amaranthine shades.
These talismans are trapped in stones,
these figurines are engraved
in elegance of their jawbones
yet buried in the ribcages of raw marbles
unknown,
with their firm bosom of opulence unshown,
before the sculptor
ignites them in their beguiling tone,
before, by the chisels
of your linear measures,
serrated all in pains and pleasures,
incise and engrave
in such
incurvate and pulvinate
sculpting treasure.
