Shadow Rung Out Of Bloom - Poem by Mark Heathcote
Oh, how I wish death, weren't prolonged.
Where are you going to my heart of wonder?
Chasing gentian lightning folk's—tongued
Now, that the, rising pain, starts to thunder
So still the pause in the flicker of death's eyes.
So quick-fan-flamed, the fire kilns bake up our skies.
Youth in her wax burn's out at both ends of (life) .
"That these daughters of mischance give up being wife".
Beauty was her enigma, once cherished to the last
How in an older, age, she haunts a bitter flask!
How cold this elongated suns-eclipse by the moon.
Love - isn't death just a shadow, wrung out of bloom.
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