Poem – “Holding Rust, in Hands” – Romanticism – 3/7/2021

Bandage these wrists,
For the blood is his to tell.
The fable that runs
In idle smoothness, of salient release
To the deep-red wine of an hourglass,
With roses, many for their petals,
Crushed as hearts,
In their due time.

Wandering in the voyage
Of pages, thickened with the chord
Of a broken spine,
Vanished strength.
Walking on stepping stones,
Concealed in the fractured image
Of a one who stood
With his eyes running
Beneath the circles,
Painted red, in his vision.

Feeble fable,
With a sorry glint to a vapid stare,
Of disgrace to each side
Of each page.

Wilted, treasured moments
Of a love once gathered,
Then broken
With crushed hearts
Staining the hourglass
In each shattered rainbow.

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