At best in the ring of stone

the bones melt into ash,

initialed by leaves of shade.

 

overwhelmed one cannot be,

gravity left the carvings here

 

the poet passes with bliss

previewing fading echoes

 

the paupers blistered carnival

drifts into the burning  fog

 

silhouettes of the broken sun

proceed to the fractured black.

 

a plea for the herbs to grow

falls on shoulder of the morn

 

rumors ripple from the rough,

the mystic has spilled wine.

 

where winter now begins

incense spreads the paradise.

 

there is a well trained spirit

and salt of tempered smile.

 

the  ease of  there forever

the center of an empty dark,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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