Twenty, twenty


You seemed like a lifetime of grief,
an Island without stories or lilies
to flaunt fragrances of blooms,
or streams to sparkle with sunshine;


only dirges to the empty chair
at the evening meal of mandrakes.
The years before joust for infamy,
sashaying sideways poppies
from thawing clay dripping
with the warmth of an infected summer.


The Isolation sucked life out of you,
Like a raisin that grows dour in the mouth.