Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Illusions

Witnessing the passage
of tired apparitions
fabricated by these eyes.

Breaths of perfume
of the twilight's primrose,
reaped by the will to capture its scent.

Taste of a drop
of golden honey
created by the wish to taste.

And the kiss
of winter wind departing,
a desired, gentle touch.

I run deadening races
with ephemeral illusions
and short-lived signatures
conjured by these frail fingers.

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