In twilight’s dank and odious arbour,
I look for solace among dead vines.
Their choking hands admit and harbour
Many lies from within their strands.
Too deathly pale the honey suckle rose,
Its pallid echoes breathe and gasp.
Its frown then holds me, and does suppose,
That I too, am often left to the cold.
I bite on rotten forbidden fruits,
Long forgotten and refused by time.
Frightening, but appetising are these shoots
They let me retch whilst savouring.
Drink up my wine
since these dead and lonely dark nights prevail,
and countless, luminous stars will make you ordinary;
and you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,
especially when caught up in these heaving times,
when precious ills pressed closest
to your undulating
chest, might cause you to succumb
or be fed whilst I am lost –
but you will learn that I am made up of hundreds,
and that you knew who I was –
till I married you –
but, please worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –
pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
and, please beckon it not.
Let us be as it once was –
let us be as it should be.
Let us be love.
Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Those who plant the trees
To grow inquisitive roots
Will never know shade
Excuse my misleading tags: WordPress is now having an invisible man hissy fit. I cannot see or delete what I am typing for them… hence my absence, among other things.
Dreams are hard to chase
Streaks of painted night run clear
Untied hands create
Day 54 /365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog
Picture: Thank you, Paul Militaru.
Oh, my weeping willow
don’t spread your tears apart,
keep count of all the strings
to your heart.
So precious – your long and tender
reaches as curiosity flourishes closer
to the impressionist vacuum, which flaunts
your ersatz beauty above its murky depths
to make you sorrowful and ponder
its reasoning while your replication
is contemplative trail.
Sleep, my weeping willow,
sobbing south to face the marsh skies;
be weary now – you’ve earned it,
when you cry.