dark sonata

embedded in a total sadness
darkness
of sensuous apprehension
without love’s harvest
that makes the east wind blow
flowing away the images
that springtime will be dancing
from the static cold caprices
of winter arabesque music
of long melancholic nights
where the inner frame of soul
only dreams and suffers a greater silence
as I the poet of discontent will
sleep in the stuffed museum
dreaming of salmon- color eye beauties
paper-made virgins of thought
unable to paint the words of lust or
speak the motions of images
not yet seen visible
embedded in a total darkness of self.

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