A VERY STRIKING EXPERIENCE! EXCELLENT WORK!
On the gloaming surf of the dark shore,
I lay my abled hands on the crimson darkened porcelain glass
On the shadows of warmth, etched from a pale glistening scar of an ivory white that blooms in miry winter
And I trace—pressing against the folds and hems of skin that caves in pearl, frail ash,
Crying out, nearly deaf, “Where are you? I do not see you—Where? Are you even here?”
It was a cascade of warmth that makes me forget the flares among weeping memories,
Gushed with a stolid eventide on the pale, slick trees with ripples, secular, in mundane rains
And frozen was the currents of the shivering white honey wounds that implore centuries
Of dew on the tongue of soft, tattered snow, and I cry out, kind one, do you see?
(What of the broken harvest of the autumn, and the rolling downfall through the burning river?)
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By the Mighty Mumford 