In a weeping garden Of dry October roses, I stand, Gazing into Tia's window. She stands, immobile, In Nubian wilderness, Holding a large green bowl And thinking. The core of her heart Is blatantly exposed--- Stripped of pretenses And augmentations. In that fleeting moment, I can see Interplanetary wisdom In a death grip hold with Global sadness--- Never a good pairing Within the constricting walls Of A restless heart. An errant breeze lifts her Athenian hair And she does a half turn, still not seeing me. She smiles suddenly, thoughts of ghost lovers And Victorian Valentines Momentarily alleviating the stygian darkness Upon her soul. |