There is no mirror to state the condition of mind
here in this purgatory of sorts,
as darkly I trace the wounds of flesh
part sin and part virtue
as drops of rose fragrance unto me cling.
The moon drips silver
gliding from the once abundant sky
I suppose even she gets tired eternally surrounded
by courtier clouds
what a brutal irony it is that we get to choose the way we perceive
but not feel,
my lips as ever blood red from exhaustion.
At the sound of a horn the gates open themselves
I lie in wait
for amnesty or damnation to claim me
as life in its monochrome musing flashes
before my eyes.
I have loved you as honey knowing not drops lingered
let us now settle the score for angels have reckoned that hour
is nearing its close.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Posted for Wild Friday #2 @ Poets United