(dedicated to Charles Baudelaire)
Did grow in my heart,
In shadow of my wanting soul;
Hoping that hopelessness would end -
When your marble eyes would open to see me.
Not even earth wet with my tears
Could draw you to tending,
And pale stalk stunted;
As you walked past into purple evening.
Then sickly did I grow;
In the garden of your withheld love -
Tears and petals black
Falling as carpet to your wanderings.
And you stooped to notice -
Only upon that last evening;
When I asked the cadaverous moon
For frosted kiss of death.