Garden of Smoke

Totally white beneath the light
We press wanting sighs beyond
Intense! The angels would not cry sweeter mercies!
All violet beneath the sheets
You violate happy idols within our mist
And the life has gone now
wavering silent
in another mental country with no words left
With such regrets does the hero grow old
and in the late light press wanting sighs?

And with less than a heartbeat the thought is fled
backlit and tired and roaming endlessly
no landmarks to be found and no place to stop.
And even God himself may be found guilty of forgetting himself in simply trying to remember.