Harcamone

 
“Harcamone”

When I die in a chamber of his heart, alone,
Where a rose rises from the stone,
I will gaze in vacant alleys of sunlight dim
Where every turn inscribes the death in him.

A tale of a rose, a dying dove
In the palm of a dreamer’s love,
To the morning bells that rage
In illiteracy of his final page—
Where is writ his sacred sin
In the blood that clings to his skin,
Which makes so cold, and beautiful
The thorns that agonize his fragile soul
Agonizing as the silence of his grave to be
While through him, the wine waits for me—
Such wine takes the place of our bouquet
Whose petals long have withered away
Leaving thorns only, and the ghost of a perfume
Of flowers that shall die on the door of the tomb.
But he is more than roses, more than a King
Of whose splendor I with the angels sing.
Farewell my dreamers! My cup o’erflows,
I leave you with the remnants of the rose,
For the dove has lost her flight
I am blinded by your dreams—such a beautiful sight!
But the sentence is written upon his breast,
Too soon! Too soon he goes to his rest,
And so too must I depart
To sleep eternal in the chambers of his heart.

© 2022 Marten Hoyle