Temple

I breathe into your temple of Diana,
drying eyes in the panes,
panes and panes of glass,
pushed back those heady drapes,
wonder,

does tempered
grass die?

I get
the pallette's obscene
and you savour
only
soulmates of grey
on grey,
enveloping grey,
basking in grey,
deep-down, drowning in grey,
peering out of smaller panels.

It's a dull tone remedy.
I
wide-swallow
high notes of vastness,
pauper's joy

- buttercups,
baring a smile,
still lodged
in lodges of those far richer,
born richer,
born with rigorous assumptions
invested
in not falling in love
with a little bit of rough -

but too much's unsaid,
falling lightly on unstepped greens.
Still
you grew curious,
weighed risk,
fingers and feet
in the pitch
whilst rings are pulled,
moon drifting, a pristine ship,
lawn lost.

There's an idea
of you
mourning me,
when morning comes,
bathing in a sea of dew
unaffected by lightness,
brightness not phasing
me, and you
still trapped,
climbing walls of power,
answering only
to what's claiming you
in your head.