Charms and talismans adorn your dress,
I stare at the candles and pass thru the mirror,
at your behest.

Peacocks and hen on the porch and yard abound...
Picking, chanting and sometimes dancing,
their chatter, movements mundane,
and yet so inherently profound.

To whom do I declare myself?
A huntress? A maiden, too close to the sea?
...is it my right to decline?
Me thinks, "Perhaps another widow, deceptive and beautiful,
striking her webs design."

Your name suits you Roma,
my soul and countenance despite,
to my heart you sprang and tarried...
Memories now shadows of the darkest night.

Half closed...clearly torn...
the gate shudders in the wafting breeze,
warm but shattered...too cold to touch,
I ponder my fate born of patent design,
and scarred by folly and eventual disease.


Gregory Sexton