Dead seasons

I sat facing the blank page of my inspiration .

Multifaced past searching a reflection in the rain,

when scripture comes in four seasons of fall ,

 and a few moons ...

 I contemplate these symphonic litanies ,

dancing in the mood of the clouds .

 Dishevelled eurythmic rhythm ...

  Wintered castaway on treachery islands 

too feverishly  exposed ,

weary of desire and abandonned ...

Love can only be outlined 

on unfinished curves ...

 I don't remember ,

if your eyes were midnight blue,

wild amber or alluvium ember ...

 Perhaps ,solar bush shade ,

whose burn causes one 

 to take refuge in the woods ...

  Like hunted beast .

Was that my way of loving ?

 The artist sculpts feeling  

only in touch of wandering ...

Faithful marble that always 

marry the shape of my silences ...

  Is it you,my sweet madness ,

speaking to me in chimeric 

 distant galaxies ,

that I translate into everyday worlds ?

  The end of time ,

is but an echo of seasons of fantasy...

 Imaginary ,that a masked harlequin 

engraves in letters of blood ,

on a parchment of rediscovered eternity ...