by Ian G Graham
Muted blue flaming fire.
Fading undutiful haste.
Desire – back- burns with mental grace.
Cleansing unseats constitution…
another soul to flee.
Nature’s arms cradle a large – round – crimson disk on its horizon
… kisses the face of evening sky
… etches her signature into the sinking of night.
Was it love caught fine in its own embrace?
Or love taking a back seat to tether illusions?