O’ cool breeze! Autumn’s tenderness is blessed
with rage, pulling the wool sweater right o’er
my weary eyes. Brown, kindled leaves grant
such reverie; a permanent vacation,
a jeweled, honey-tongued underworld of
Paradise. Dearest, darling, divine friend
that stays by my side— Art thou your bride as
any boy could be? As Pythias waits
for the ax or the kiss, the long sleep or
the morning after where fields are drenched
in sun and flax and moths spooling out as
a waking dream. Now pull the seam. Confess:
There’s no excuse left to be meek, no
hour either. Death comes to everyone simply
because there’s an ode to write and the
deadline was last week. This time it will be
different; crimson, gold, and ecstasy in
fire, but the spell cast never falls just right.
This time lay Weariness down in their dark
curls and chemise onto a bed of feathered
phantom song.This time all symphonies
are mourning bells, splayed in the harpsichord
of marigolds, at the meridian
of Despair; your final thorn-hushed Goodnight.
West Ambrose is a writer and grad student. His twitter is @westofcanon and his website is westofcanon.com where you can find creative works inspired by antiquity and classic lit. The website, westofcanon.com, is also the home of the Crow’s Nest and HLK Quarterly, an opportunity for the folks of many/any disciplines with interest in nautical and seaward things.
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