death suspires avidly, whose
aura stalks the trail of dusk
hung perpetual above the brow,
and —heavy— bends it ceaselessly.
a rancor fell, an angel low
is swinging frightfully its wrath:
an enmity derived of rust,
which makes deciduous a swath
of everlasting infancy.
ill-borne, a bedlam thrived; despair
a font of finite blood,
while centuries of ripe surfeit
played host to hordes of brooding flies.
death —inspired moribund—
hung weak upon her mien,
her countenance as busts
in darkened galleries retain.
living grace, a sun, Her smile
dissolving every streak of grief
residing in the dust
and falling all the while.

§441 · March 3, 2005 · Tags: ·

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