24.

You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude

The shadows by the barn door, the crow hoarse

From warning me, nothing apparent here

In the hieratic ode of faded oak.

The red paint is a metaphor for the rose

That was once the blood of love, enfolded,

A coat to weather the tempests, the feelings

That go into a kiss or all those years.

And the hiatus between flesh and soul,

The almost there of wishes and remorse,

You and I would be a we, together, divided,

Heartsore, headstrong, down and out in love.

Words are whispers that curve in the wind,

Love hopes, a creed, crestfallen, rising.