The air is still like the minutes before confession.
The cloak shrouds me.
On the second breath of the Easter of Roses I walk to the outskirts of your love.
A violin exults fires upon darkness.
In one single stoke your passion consumes and shuns me.
The chambers of my heart resound.
Reds prevent you from understanding how much I love you.
My eyes are the eyes of the Sphinx
My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, can be ordered here.
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)