Glory In The Arms Of Summer 2

All our sown fields die of heaven

the wet soil tires of the sun

What we most dreamt of,

burns like the longing of empty years.

The summer sings of spring's silent dawns

and the unnamed mysticism of petals

of my own perennial beauty

Life is too infrequent for me.

The sun burns on a rose

Where my face and idealism once laid

August came as quick as May

Now all the garden tires of the sun

My skin dreams of the familiar hearts,

once I used to know, time sings and I close my eyes

To the touch of the ache of abandoned moments

In wisdom,I dream alone, my love it fades.

Reviews

[Dayran]

It reads like the experience of the world as if the world had become a personality in its own development. Perhaps today it discovers its real identity on the street where he lives. Nice write.

[gombeggar]

nicely written...last line needs a space edit