In the West

coil of toil
to ash from ember

leaf of laurel umbrage reign

unheard is the curved eclipse

it mutters

emptiness draws forth

somewhere it knows

arms at ends

untouched
inside a tinseled box

the heavy-laden hearth
awaiting inhalation

tall rubescent-blooming
luminous trails pluming

torrid, treacherous

rushed love
that longs
for languishing

if only then
to be extinguished

in the rift
betwixt these coaxing lips
of life uncivil

said to surely save me

on this cursed night
of naked arbor

leaves have all since
turned to umber

upped and left
and so, the sunset.

in the west
worlds waste away.

as i and i

could never quite recall
its name

lay separate

in this loft
of lonesome plunder