each year i read

i read much of the night
and dream

i dream of going
south in the winter

where summer never
beyond its heat
beyond its burning

hyacinths and  lilacs
smouldering in
beneath its rocks

beneath its red
oh so red

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

cry out in fiery
that neither time nor
can erase

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

a waterless
to Phoebus’ thirst

a lockless
a keyless

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

© s rogers 21 april 2009

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