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 folk lightning-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 bakes 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 she's ageing older, now 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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