Est Aut Muyer

There is a woman whose arduous path

of distraught and confusion has periliously

ceased my inner ease to acts of peripherial

romance under a summer lit room born of

desecrating dreams and splendid possibilities.

I wreck on the day I sought to dream again

and believe in a good that may have somehow

seemed a possible ideology of a poet and his

philosopher  of whom of which I do not speak.

A lighter shade of blue immersed

from the fallen curtain inside of her tranquail

room unveiling chaotic harmony dispaired in

solutes of beautiful eyes and winged creatures

to a ravenous night of no solitude.

Broken strings on the guitar and blinds gone

haywire like the threads growing from her skull

whose intention will harvest the fall of a companionship

escourted by a single walk under drizzled rain. And

though her beauty shun every mans dream...

the reflection

of her morbid eyes pierce the heart and understanding

of a world that has gone part becomes a stranger to my

soul, sister to my amour...

Bon nite to thee,

memory foresaken and impression not taken

from lint to dying wish of the most beautiful

thing that this world so believes in yet fears

in its embrace...