They Shall Sing of Flowers

“They Shall Sing of Flowers”

Alas! I fear, in this rest, your heart is dead,
Take mine—it will beat for you instead.
Do you realize we have wanted to die—
And as, across our fingers, the blood begins to dry
From that self-same wound as you buried in me
We disappear into each other, as if to be free
While broken as our sails capture pendulous air
Of the farther sea, and shadows dwelling there.

In your silence lies a truth I understand.
In vacant sighs my spirit is below your hand.
We can lift these veils around your soul and mine;
Wait for fell winds to fall on voices of a different sign
As our pale eyes across the dying horizon view
Decaying skies where angels wait for me and you.
And with spirits of the self-slain, we shall lie
On the surface of that sky.

My skin is cold against you, lying in the clouds—
Our shadows left behind in their mortal shrouds.
When we were young, we had only to sleep,
The ruins of our dreaming, dying in the deep
Of our tears as we spoke of what was to be
In voices that echoed in our minds, so silently.
Voices that told me what I longed to hear:
That I could not die unless you were near.

When the door opened, your lips were to my brow,
I saw good in your deeds, as well as in your vow.
We have only to die now…
We have only to take of this poison of each other.
In nights swelled by pain as well as by wonder.
Some will say we knew nothing more than this,
And our souls were as weary as they were restless.
We have only to die, and they shall sing of flowers…
They shall sing of flowers…

© 2022 Marten Hoyle