The Templar

Of what I must do
Of what must be said
It could only do
only
as
to such
but,
in-between the bitter lines
of heather
lies a mausoleum floor

:

 strewed aside

with palatial inflections of a sycamore seed,
whirling ever,
in
time
around & arise.


Fluttering... to the breeze
Adrift,  amidst,   a twine of effervescence that leads
to thine eyes
 
Oh breeze!
Oh breeze!!
What might I may
beyond the shores of all awash dismay
in my eternal eyes ;
a horizon of flittering choirs

ever sought after and afore most present.