A soft lamplight of soul
clings, hidden in honeysuckle’s
straggly vine hollows,
it gives vacant worship
to the scented sprigs of omnipotence
traversing the climbing frame
permeating olfactory nerves –
aloof and untouched,
analogous to antenna.
No thorns here, but sweet musings
under velvet eaves’
rained jets of tears that stain
and mar the complexity of
patterns ingrained on leafy palms
upturned to catch naught but
the rose’s squat tealight tears,
which drip viscose
melancholy, while also asking
for forgiveness.
Poet's Corner 