Who bequeathed the rose
Above your brow?
Where each petal runs rampant, to fall
To meet the lips that call
My name, through the frosted walls.
What love turned itself
Upon an old and delicate leaf?
When beauty wakes up, and nestles beside
The stirring loneliness, of a man in a hollow form,
And he lays next to a shadow.
Merely a quilt that covers an empty space,
Merely an imprint in the pillow where once laid a head.
A place of dying radiance,
Because, I still love,
As I would to anyone,
But, the picture near to my lamp,
Near to my hand,
Where tears soak the skin of my palm,
Brings to me, the familiar burning.
Love is an outpost
She is now the lighthouse,
Covered by the night.