leaves go in bursts of brittle gold,
preface to the season's sighing, all
the warmth from living skin to
dying color, as hearts accept
the coming dark, and cold,
and the finisher rests her
burdened head upon your chest,
closure before the looming
lapse of life— her brother brings
upon the back of horses, white,
their exhalation thick, treading
on the hard-earned golds,
their cloak covering behind them
the world, the work of one
whose chilling fingers lay
inside your palm, martyr
for the postscript
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Comments
nice. possibly one of the best of recently... mysterious stuff.
--
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears blot out a Word of it.
--
Rykki
--
Ask me about barnacles, you won't regret it. (sometimes, it is what you've got, not just where you stick it.)
--
Rykki
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