Unreal

each year i read

i read much of the night
and dream

i dream of going
                                south
south in the winter

where summer never
                                          surprises
beyond its heat
beyond its burning

hyacinths and  lilacs
smouldering in
                               heaps
beneath its rocks

beneath its red
oh so red
                   rocks

and the games we play
with agony lit jewels
amid stained satin cases,

cry out in fiery
                              points
that neither time nor
penance
can erase

can you hear me
my Poet,  you
whose voice has
                                somehow
bound
my own

a waterless
                      slake
to Phoebus’ thirst

a lockless
                   key
a keyless
                  prison

and a nightfall
of exquisite
                       ruin
at the hands of
                              nothing
of nothing
                   at all

© s rogers 21 april 2009

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