The Poem

Plural is a verb to blind optimism,
Hope’s the candle in an empty prison.
The dusk sleeps with a lonely prism,
Alas, died the sky to a moon’s treason...

A palm pale with pained sickness,
The birds outside sing free...
Death is failure’s drowning weakness,
The window shut as the walls breathe...

Sleeping Madrigal thus sealed no lip,
A Garth cries a weeping bliss!
The empty moon in a sorrow dip,
Pale are my lips we hence kiss!

Sleeping silkworm thus breathes a knit,
How sad could be agony’s grey pencil?
My awaiting cobweb has your candle lit,
The empty sky is hope’s painted stencil...

The waiting dawn aches to breathe,
A night paints a portrait grey.
The amused streetlight sets life free,
Heaven’s *wreathe to his empty prey...

The wind’s a spelling on a chin,
Flowers died before the wedding...
The nightingale has a monopoly sing,
A Rosary to look up the blue bedding...