Lament
The onyx rose of ritual
awaits the gathering night.
Too often the almond sun
slides slowly down the buttered
sky. We know it is close,
this day when snakes fly--
a prophecy of poinsetta's red
rending our lover's eyes.
These scars like granite
streaks marbled in freshly ground
steak soak up the pink
reality of choice growing
by the front door, a lilac
of love's last coliander.
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