Trestle Tear

My trestle tear, the flame of prose, a fantast heart, a mantra
Rose. The years have died, a fertile grave, a feral plant, the
Chant of waves. My trestle tear, a vat of ink, a soul to soar,
A heart to sink. And quilted love, a thousand pleats, a web
Of scars, a lover’s feast. My trestle tear, the spirit wept, the
Pulse of pain, a secret kept. The years have died, a bleeding
Psalm, a wailing prayer, a flaming palm. And light to God,
The hearts aflame, a skeptic love, a welkin crane. My
Trestle tear, a welted flare, a wounded soul, the breath of
Air. And knotted wings, a thirst to fly, a garret death, a
Pulse to cry. The years have died, a fertile grave, a feral
Plant, the chant of waves. My trestle tear, a heart’s lament,
A lively volt, the soul’s repent. And pyre love, a penchant
Sigh, a karmic flame, a grain to die.