Alone — Awake — Again
The lapis lazuli
dungeon dome of the morning sky
Brings cirrus streaks
on teary eyes
Without a kiss
Like an adolescent who learns a sesquipedalian word and attempts to shoehorn it in every sesquipedalian sentence, the feeling, like the words to articulate it sufficiently engulfs everything. It is repeated until it becomes meaningless. This happens until it is hourly, invisible and inaudible like the bell bongs of the clock tower he weeps under in the church yard where they drank fruity Spanish wine in red glasses.
The black pebbled mass of the crows perched on the crenulations 20 feet above indifferently survey the 12th century graveyard and the curvature beyond. Almost hawkish. Almost dead.