He Is Dust
There, through the fog of, sapphire and amethyst,
lay captured in ice and poised in ancient rest, she.
Her stare frolicked into the consciousness of feeling.
Her touch covered him in downy flake; she had him in a reeling.
Oh despair! Wretched is she, goddess of breathless
men and women and he.
A fool's king, a prima donna's humble persona,
but of them who would taste fog of:
sapphire and amethyst?
There, a frightened finger is directed towards me,
she coiled and slithered leaving miniscule
living things to weep.
She approached my skin, and let it slide
in slender rhyme between her and Heaven's eye.
There, the gold orb's light, dimmed and shivered.
He tasted her fog of sapphire and amethyst.
Unfortunate ghostly remains of he.
Ghostly, ghastly remains of:
a King's fool and a prima donna's humble persona.
Blessed are my fingers remains, and
my dust is sprinkled,
from where I can no longer perish.
I look down at her,
My heart convulses at her only blemish-a smile.
Share This Poem