The Cenotaph to Poetry’s Memory:

 
I am bound to the tomb of my poems. The Kingdom of Love was just a souvenir song to drown out the cracking fire of my Winter blue eyes. I often wonder where the burning Chrysanthemums go to dream, or the starlings go to lunch, or how something splendid could willingly leave you ravaged in a grey dystopian dawn. So as I write another poem for the grave, I grow wilder than the villain monster star that dances with ease at the chance to love again. And I put my pen down.

©️Winter Dawn Burns