Est Aut Muyer
There is a woman whose arduous path
of distraught and confusion has periliously
ceased my inner ease to acts of peripherial
romance under a summer lit room born of
desecrating dreams and splendid possibilities.
I wreck on the day I sought to dream again
and believe in a good that may have somehow
seemed a possible ideology of a poet and his
philosopher of whom of which I do not speak.
A lighter shade of blue immersed
from the fallen curtain inside of her tranquail
room unveiling chaotic harmony dispaired in
solutes of beautiful eyes and winged creatures
to a ravenous night of no solitude.
Broken strings on the guitar and blinds gone
haywire like the threads growing from her skull
whose intention will harvest the fall of a companionship
escourted by a single walk under drizzled rain. And
though her beauty shun every mans dream...
of her morbid eyes pierce the heart and understanding
of a world that has gone part becomes a stranger to my
soul, sister to my amour...
Bon nite to thee,
memory foresaken and impression not taken
from lint to dying wish of the most beautiful
thing that this world so believes in yet fears
in its embrace...