paint me a picture
of white acropolis
winding black ivy
pen sketched
in the night,
the afternoon glaze
and the mid-morning
haze intertwined
with the dusky
frame right
in heart of
the winter
north woods
and the scent
of the green
lady forest
in marble
all bent into
faceless white
spirit, spy right
through you, dreamer,
see the lingering
hopes that haunt
your left shoulder,
that haunted
your eyes, so you
cast them away
and brought in
your dark curtained
chamber, and day
after day you
sketched tears on
her face,
sketched tears
washed them clean
and the white
salted angel’s
green eyes were
not seen anymore.

T. E. Pyrus


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