“24. You sculch my secret signs, as though I illude” in “Musing”
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.
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