09 July 2010

Words Like A Rose

A morning mending heartstrings scarcely
progresses melancholy beyond the pale
but you’d be stretching the truth saying
these things mattered in a perfect Universe

Perfection is a figment of imagination –
much like melancholy – only better versed
and infinitely more shapely unless
an imaginer’s perceptually blind

Rhythms of the spheres seem nearer
consensus than an accord of bleak signs
turning inwards in a wilful depression
of damned self-deprecation

But there you are, smiling with words
held like a rose between teeth bared
in the cutest grin; it is a savoury offering
appealing like redemption
© 19 June 2010, I. D. Carswell