Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Aren’t words apt?
Blue and battered falling… like leaves
Aren’t words apt; hollow in feeling?
When, you’re rummaging-depth of seaweeds,
Drowning; besides mermaids a merman ever sweetly.
“Won’t you gather me in the wind?
Take me too your lair”. Whispered a voice…
Bind me in your oaken shark tailed limbs,
I’ll be your pagan Japanese lady there, I swear.
Your midnights raven with talons to tear!
The one; with black or golden, red, crimson hair.
Blue and battered fallen… like those ill begotten, leaves.
Aren’t words apt; hollow in feeling if you please?
…When you’re reeling in the shadows,
Listening to these night owls, cries.
With all seven senses departed for the wind
My rare blue Akahana Japanese rose.
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