Sheathes of the moon disentagling,
To the midnight disarray waxing
Like the waves upon the shore crashing,
I quell my desire for this amaranthine search for meaning
‘Til then, lambasted doors are open
For the only damsel worth the taking,
With your eyes set to slice upon skin,
There is no language far too obscene
-
In this bed of sullied veneer,
No fantasy nor meaningless wandering appear
For as genuine as your eyes of bequeathed gems,
Hungry is my passion, for the touch of your silken hands
Of which creases tell so much how lengthy the saunter has been
Every beast, uncouth in manner
Every trouble, lurching at the road yonder
Where, in these halls, mollified perhaps and not vexed
Shall I find a hair of intermittent locks worth betrothing
Tell me, this search better be not null and void
-
I awoke with the offensive tangerine sharpness
Of the Sun in its lucid vale, my actions withdrawn from
What gregarious people do from time to time,
To pine from work and engage from one soul to yet another,
Losing time in the month of October,
Gaining a feigned tribute of forever to what these
Eyes have been trying to descry in a lifetime
Of partitioned grin and emancipated fractured jowls
My arms in between folds grew ravines and vines
Where desolation creeps in between the immense night
And vivid skylines where the bridges crashed in the
Rueful tempest of emotions and a labyrinth of impassive picadors
-
I have gone to a nearby tavern to look
For a soul to identify, to juxtapose myself beside a mirrored visage
That has been waiting for my impression, and then
With one sprightly stare, I would, the same with the fire -
The flare waiting, would be kindled once more
So, should I vehemently, and as finicky as my erstwhile self
Could have said, “I am but aloof to disdain, ”
But the rehearsed speech will soon be set
To a pit of fallacies and follies that none of us
Thought of trifling, but in the long road of forked options
We still do - What frivolity lies in these skinned skeletons,
I ought to remain silent, and never ogle at the truth
-
Meanwhile I head home,
With the preset dawn sinking, wailing like a siren
And the promise of the night is effaced
By the cold verdure that serenades the azure
With constellations and night-time fanaticism
And so I say, rid of stoicism,
I wish to exist tonight - So I’ve heard in prayers
And psalms, short stories and spasms in between life and death
That there is nothing in the search, but the search itself
And so to hold hands is to embrace death
To kiss one’s lips is to seal a demise,
And to embrace one, withering body
Is to accept the invitation
Towards a slow decay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fascinating way if writing keep it up