Summer Chill

The death-stroke of world peace comes

in from the mist of a massacring morning 

The doves dive like scrapbook of beauty undone——

I witnessed this on the attic before Epiphany

So I anchored my shoulder to the pillow

And the frost that clenches my knee

I want to leave so much for the sorrow

And this is it, on a cycle I must retreat 

Long known is this kismet of departure

As long as it is forbidden and lost

But to the hill where lambs are Shepherded 

I will step my foot out of Weeping Moss

So I put on a starlight’s disguise and dismay

before my Nemesis plays one note of overstay