Aren't Words Apt? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Blue and battered falling… like leaves
Aren't words apt; or 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 to your lair'. Whispered a voice
Bind me in your oaken shark-tailed limbs,
I'll be your pagan Japanese lady there, I swear.

Your midnight's 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.