And it was just before
the light of the day turned
from lambent into crepuscular,
when loneliness dropped in.
No moonlight or chants
apprised me of the doldrums,
only rude, winter whisks abducting
the whims of the first summer.
The stars cried with the twilight,
between smoke and mirrors,
his voice stumbled in fever and salt,
his eyes, blind, faint with darkness.
And my heart, senseless knot of desires,
consumed by the charade of fire-colored roses,
endorsed the transformation of passion,
like a child in love with sandcastles.
©2013, B. T., All rights reserved