Pomegranate Sunset

The textures of your voice,
Broken strings bemused,
As violins play the part
Of our Renaissance parade.

A promulgated, encyclopedic Holocaust;
Buried bodies in flames and dirt;

Wide open parentheses,
Without remarks.
I died;
Within the corruptions of my heart,
I died.

Yet it’s beats and bleeds.

A soulful, willful chill
Has descended on my flesh,
And left a sour taste.

Yet your lips;
Sweet as a pomegranate sunset,
To draw in breath for life,
And sustain the chord

Of a blossoming paradise.

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