Last Spring

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.