I wear the scent of your pulchritude
Upon my forehead
Like a diadem of african violets
You lay supine amongst oak leaves
Imitating the vacuous heavens
1/3 of the stars remain,
In the sky- the dying light shimmers
Evanescence on your quaking pores
Your skin is bare & pale
Under the ashen aura
Of the morning star
Your forsythia teems with lubricity & whey
As the polycephaly
Sinks below the forest floor-
The cerise ethers creek
& elucidate
the beauty in your conflagration
Posed, in forgotten fields
Of the Syritis Major
A field of clover braces & pleads
Hoping
That in
One thousand two hundred & sixty days
It may savor the depths of your shade



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