Death of a Desire

Not that I see not the clouds romancing
the branches that extend to stars
Plucking those moons, I hear peacocks
reminding the bathing willow of its scars

Not that I am blind to the stardust washing
up the shore, that pens their journey on the sand
Picking up those letters, few awry steps house
Their dreams and chalk out their scheme-grand

Not that my words don’t lure me into verses
that strangle yesteryears’ rhymes to death.
Vincent hollered.
I chose to pick apples, there lies my shibboleth

Not that the shimmering lights of the street
don’t audience me for its shadow-play
Fooling me each evening, they narrate
the tragedies to crowd that push me to say,

“The moon would glide on a wind for thy poetry
And the peacock would know of our severance
But the stone that would meet me six feet under
should bask in the world where I made a difference.”



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