Morning, Noon and Night,
your memory beckons me,
the feel that is the hard hand
that points to the hours of your desire,
Mourning moon that's bright,
an orange that bloated eats the horizon,
no farther from me than your affection,
no colder than your last words,
Now that you have gone away,
I hate, with that intensity,
of hyperion dawn electric,
that shivers away the aching hours,
of leaf swirled wind unto the dawn.
And seen the cleansing rite,
of November dawn,
that pierces veil of gray,
and finds me lucid this first time,
with nothing left to say.
and your ghost vanishes from my memory.