It's a warm breeze.
Summer is bleeding out of this world,
And has left a haunted ghost,
A spectre of April.
And even with that,
Wandering lonely stairways
(Ever upward I click like bone),
Even with futility, and ultimate triviality,
Senility or death by silence,
A crumbling fortress of a body;
Death by serenity.
And even with that,
There are those things that shine,
Touch luminescent, scents palpable.
Even as they leave us they smile.
One such is the moon,
Moons we share,
Moons age old that watched fires and floods,
And the sleek fox slip through the grass like quicksilver.
And even with that,
Multifaceted strains...
Collision and Chance, some pithy sepulchral beauty
And a final blooming outbreak
Of sweet briar wrapped around skull and heart.