My
heart is like a hearth in December,
burning
slow and solitary …
my
spirit is sworn still to remember
every
touch and every ember
of
the love that I must bury.
My
lungs the chimney of such a flame,
worn
by hunger’s constant yearning …
the
tides of the sea whisper still her name,
and
against the restless salt of shame
her
form in the wave is turning.
My
eyes are dimming beneath the sweet spell
of an
Autumn crowned in deepest red …
beyond
the clouds sings a church bell,
wailing
ever its ungrateful knell
for
the one who lies within me dead.
My
arms have lost the presence they still crave,
the
tender touch of molten hips …
the
fires held aloft above her dark grave
expose
eyes and hair I could not save,
though I grieve most for the rotting lips.
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