I once held your hand of enthralling silk
caressed by the early light of a newly born world.
You recall the tall blades of mysterious grass
the refuge of those days of tender innocence.
We shared what they call youth in novels
a fantasy written upon a tombstone to be carved soon.
I saw the whispering of trembling hours
scribing their harsh embrace with a blunt knife.
You remained still with majestic stoicism
under the chisel of the unproven sculptor.
We fell to flashes of stars blinding the nights
their gentle sparks burning our breasts with fear.
I held your soul into my palms to make it safe
while the agony of life shocked every fiber of you.
You opened your eyes with accepting despair
drowned in the sorrow of the upcoming storm.
We took another step under the leathery coat
ready to share our farewells beneath wrinkly flesh.
– Fabrice B. Poussin