To Estella

“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.” William Shakespeare.

I see myself walking my elephant through the park.
The red blood blotted sky at noon,
the trees, bleak in midsummer.
My vision aimed at a graveyard, a solitary
funeral procession.
I think I am the hearse.
I think memory is the curse.

Barefoot naivety, flitted through the forest, and
scarlet silk, hugging your curves like autumn leaves,
strewn over sloped hills.
No dimension captures this.
Fresh and entwined we lay, like Ivy.
Evergreen, growing and unsaid.

Then voices at night. You feigned sleep
and I despaired because they were coiled in your dream,
cold, where I had been obscured.
In the morning I searched for you
and found on my heart, a tattoo.
But love is hard to stop.

And words are not enough.
Anyone can write poetry.

To Estella

tcarson

Joined December 2007

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