Aconite Rising in the Nigellan Garden

Before my pen has glean'd 

I push my ink to form from thought 

whistling in a tiny woode

peeled behind the phlox. 

A row of dandelions comet, 

tailing t'wart the sky, 

yet, with its movement in this wind 

is an image that moves with time 

Lonely roots which bore 

bursting petals near a newing dawn 

their sinew'd Irises melt in rain 

to the dreams of love clearly fading on 

I once held a fondness, tender 

by the shine of those eyes, I dreamed. 

A known bitterness tasted in recollection, 

a biting image on Damascena green. 

Below, as above. Above, as below. 

my Hell, at its best.. is its levelled core 

Eurythmic skips, where the heart once lived 

O' Cora, My Nyx. Nevermore, This. 

-Dying while dear minutes stroll. 

A dirge to my vow implored 

scattered were these scratchings 

pecking at the thoughts of yore... 

-The Blackening window, pain'd. 

Last spring by it your picture stains 

and as the summer dried, even the drought felt drained 

it is in autumn where life hangs. 

Felled by a note one winter, where the pines sand shape. 

- A death message brought with breeze. 

With silence, it is to suffer, 

no words would relay, 

A devil-in-a-bush, to a god by a tree 

With a photo in thought along wildflower seas. 

- Stone-pressed into dust.

An emotional Lycanthrope — turned misanthrope, 

by miss and throat, 

tugging chord: I am missing rope. 

Slowly stretched in circular sway 

an overhead view of a belfry grave, o' those trilling rings.