The Echos of Her Absence



The Echoes of Her Absence



Sacred hearts of the meek,

they shall inherit the blessed,

and the briar the rose,



Sings her bust, a velvet flame -

haphazard, vagabond -

through subterranean oil-fires.



Immersed in blueberry mist,

salty to the tongue

but such sweet revery



To the ears, soft particles

of sound alight the hum

in the hollows of his moments.



Maenad ecstasies, oscillations,

horsehair upon copper,

she waxes a singular being,



She wanes through twilight hours,

in fits of disintegration,

plumb with the void, sated.



Now she ascends, renewed,

across concrete plateaus,

in dust storms, timidly.



She manifests in null-points

distended, inside-out

and all over, once again,



In threads of sage smoke,

in the texture of tree bark,

her grace unfurls itself.



She remains, at length, 

mute figure with yellow breath

frozen to the clouded pane,



Tickling his insides

on sunny south-bound avenues,

in joyous gatherings of friends.



Before feline eyes, the black

sings a song, immemorial,

echoing from whence



The night only knows,

and won't wish to tell

sad mortals on this wet eve.