Saint

A season woven into the pale mandala

hung abroad and looking upon the pretty pianet.

Adorned with memories; the airplane, the dragon, the photographs.

I am born in the elegies, a light to guide the mishaps.

Shimmering at the glass's edge,

the wine spills over, cold and wet;

this white pool clinging to the carpet.

As the reaper names his time and swings a scythe towards me,

I am bidding farewell from the vine of the balcony.

And the sorrows drift in summer air.

The warming delight that stretch out of the glare

breaking the transition and weeping at the sights.

In memoriam, the shrieking winds that kept me company on lonesome nights.

Standing still was a figure chosen for the sails

hung atop a whitewall shrine at the zenith of my tale.