Love’s Scorched End

 

‘hail death, since now your bite is in my sigh, the wither of hope’s fine voice; the bud that leans before the sun, the lamb that silent cries before the dawn:

 

yet, be not smug Dark Lord of haunted soul, Thy Self, if Master’s head with Munch has screamed on Van Gogh’s bed; long is the tear in the empty night, the dark of broken dreams, but short is the hour at love’s scorched end, when morning star love’s light defends’

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 ‘Terms of Affection’ Series