(I)

Time fleet, warm feet —kisses on wagon wheel —carriage

of pain and grief, a night forlorn— preparing a perfect

Ruination, she sighs like a leaf of 4th July

Getting carried without being touched or untouched:

It stopped right there, clock strives backward.

(II)

A song of swan maybe —music filling air you can huff,

a perfect redemption —too late, flapping wings cut already;

She looks for dubious prey, but when prayers get noticed?

Swords, striking out in the opaque freight

Tools burnt out in the golden gleams.

(III)

She hears the soft pounding —my love—a caressing

of light and course, embolization of dark and frost;

If time, be frozen untouched —unfathomable cutscenes

will shine, as a lustre soldier lay down in the middle

A soft cotton flats as a cloak.

(IV)

Grieved for beauty —a lust— so beautiful, so withal

Lurid dreams get recessed, for shadowed throne— a quietness;

A primrose of a veiled falls, amid the violated grove

Weeps before the last storm-proof,

Tis' gone! Tis' gone! Only a vigorous cry.

(V)

Grace upon the firm sprees, a slow departure—

Knocked him out, lied as dead martyr—the pumping throbbing

Lost beat, a heat in the light sublime —a pair of cold lips

Touched so lightly like a sinner's repentance,

Whispered low near the ears, "Sorry love, you're gone!"

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