As sentinel of crimson pain,
it offers velvet arms,
to time's destructive callings;
to life's eternal claims.
Upon a rotted floor of hurt,
within love's peeling walls,
you wait in mouldy sanctuary;
until I will return.
But shadowed light is falling
and night has called me home;
the door forever open
to dreams and ghostly forms.
The colour of our passion,
has held in shining dyes,
to honour what we shared
in bright, lost, helpless lies.
http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/11/poetics-its-a-micromacro-world/#respond
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