Attar

I have lifted the hours to silence

set lies from all remains

and remorse upon the skin with 

windows cracked to rain

But the want to be of shutter, 

that row of innocent hue

the eye that bends and keeps from night

to reveal what won't construe 

How they sleep 

I do not know

How they dream 

it is a candle blazed on winter's artery 

Tomorrow I go again into the sphere of blades

a ghost within myself bruised to thought

and all that's left with May upon the door

let knock be done or shunned once aptly kinned

But what of love from love that never comes

that hell of bliss that word from words begin

Author's Note