No head rushed from a
a bubble of dizzying scents.
No sepia drenched Merlots spilling,
Arms entwining and lips coming together.
This Spring weave me a
garland of Sorrow. One for the
White Goddess who plays the lute,
and one for me and the
thousand blended notes of my sorrow.
Hear! Weave me, please,
a garland of Sorrow this Spring,
before the flowers die. A death of
poetic passion, between the pages
of Prufrock’s Love Song.
I offer you my tears,
I offer you the sweat of,
the peonies on my brow.
No regrets A music of Silence.
I believed in the rising sun,
and soaked in its auburn rays;
I admired the moonlit night,
and dared its moonlit face,
to count my scars and cuts.
I sang true to the mountains,
as my voice echoed down the slopes.
The lilies of the valley consumed me with a hug,
and the winds swept me off my feet.
Still standing. Trying. Strong
I now offer you this sea of love my friend,
returning all that you gave it once.
After all that’s all I have to offer,
In this last spring of my life.
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