(no subject)
a stampede of ghosts in laughter aches-
so fitting the distance-
a timeless face-
am i the spitting image-
of your unborn child-
who would know the likeness-
he aches with laughter undefiled-
& the chill upon your bosom-
i would stir it with a coal-
from the house he lit-
one wailing fit-
fell flaming round my soul-
sweetly held the memory-
& fed the ember breath-
i fall upon you ere to rise-
the dawn & bornless death-
VOLO ADAMO