The skin pulls tight against my aching bones,
erstwhile hands stretched through indifferent space
and sweeping relinquish between cyclones
toward captured darkness as aged as Thrace,
we stood on shorelines of hoarfrost combined
with all the dreams of spirits that hover
on tiptoe of our created divine,
simple promises curved and uncovered
to fill the citadels over measure.
Would i die for you? Would i die for you?
The earth has cracked to unspoken zephyr,
stormed memories to grope and ascend to.
In winter the charcoal dominions burned,
to be reborn in springs cool winds, unearned.
Poem © Phen Weston 2015