wilted flowers

Adorned in the jewels

of another man’s life,

there stirs within

the hymn to strife.


Its hollow notes relieve

dead eyes from sight,

the requirements of love

that abandon stars to night.


Fools on stringless harps,

the orchestra of songless space

produce the music, not of spheres,

but of notes that stones replace.


As one dares eyes not to see

a feeding trough of dead flowers,

here the blindness is complete,

trading one’s life for another’s power.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s