Time and again thoughts revisited,
Moments murmuring mauve memories,
Of virtues elected, notions cemented,
Agreeing on wrongs, blooming toward pinnacles;
Like a tree’s thud in sylvan nighttime —
Timber! — deafening continual crashes
Of uncertainty painted on tiled floors,
Stars illuminating globules of dew
Vibrating into teardrops streaming
Down cheeks like those old tales of ours
That carry briefcases to gates around
Throbbing chests, regressing and progressing
Toward reconciliation, the soul’s amelioration,
Speaking hard truths:
That all the eyes have seen, the ears have heard;
That stems do not mend roots;
That the heart withers and coughs up ruddy petals.

With each footstep crossing padded carpets
Stitched with applause-graced threads, nearing
Secrets nestled in the paneled wood
Of velvet banquet halls, where all that’ll remain
Are toasts on days of victory and silence in between;
Her spirit will quicken a thousand patters
In every chest, freeing every gate until
The halls resound with aching polyrhythmia
That ears so lovingly pressed will never detect again;
Onward trudges this scull, never will
Rippling waters commit to white-cloth sails,
So too will the sun never catch sight of
A reality so rare and illusions so similar;
On this autumn-columned lake,
She will erupt flames in every sideward glance,
Hearts colliding in unity, demonstrating
Its own truth and essence
To everyone, all the world, and to their beauty.

Oh beloved, I am but a fingertip on your pulse,
A season of pause in your breast;
Do not think more of me.