Free Verse # 278 (a fading dream)

Each poem dipped
into the inkwell of memory,
between shivering fingers held
to paint the nocturnal mural
into a fading dream.


Young girls
scurry the roads
like flowers,
and I long for the rose
amid whose petals lives
the night and its fragrance,
the day and its pure light.


With each flick
of tongue and pen
he paints her,
a poem bleeding
in his cup of wine.


Wielding a flame
to her candle-wax skin
with his fingers he moulds her,
a river of white wine
flowing serpentine
into the wellsprings of eternity.


Shaking from my leaves
the tears of yesteryear
into the steep silence of my heart
her voice travels,
now a hissing snake
now rolling thunder.


Crafting the tea vapour
into scarves of silk
and bathing her naked skin
in this tremulous flow
of breath and poetry


His silent shadow
upon her skin falls etching
a thousand fluttering desires,
fireflies aching
to burn on his altar,
therein be consumed.


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