Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Poor Poetry: Mine, for H, 2004

Seductive wisps of lethal fog reach out, caress with lies—
The moonlit white belies the night, veils whisp’ring Siren sighs

And songs to the Sirens, sung by the damned, who, hopeless, still would hope
For death as sweet as mortals meet: with dreamless sleeps, elope.

Now languid eternities, elaborate symphonies, a moaning, delirious moon
Chanting over, above our winter, of falling; fall—and swoon.

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