Summer heats over a quiet afternoon
In the fall when love fell, azaleas bloomed
The mere mention of love and there it was,
The black box with a ceramic white dove.
Her perfumes‘ persistence mocks
After having opened the box
With the broken red lock.
Clasping hands with a swing and a strut;
Wanting of emotion, an empty gut.
Silliness of newness, cutting edge of loss
Feelings and images faded, losing their gloss.
At least allow peace or recover some chains
Let me have something tangible to gain
Her perfume still mocks
Hovering over the box
With the broken red lock
Let the dove take wing, carry me away;
Hear my pleas now, give me some say!
Suddenly in the heavens looking down from above
Released from its grip, at last peace from the dove.
Her perfume no longer mocked
Having tossed away the box
With the broken red…
View original post 6 more words