Thirteen Silk Verses Poem by Chris Zachariou

I've cast my crumbling
journal to the winds
and now only the breeze
will ever know her secret;

but the breeze, allured
by melting snowflakes
has fled for shelter
into the silence of the caves.

Her porcelain beauty
sparkles in the tunnels
and a gloam lilac light
embroiders thirteen silk verses
on the lace of her raised gown.

Soon, the deranged guard
will come on his silver bike
craving the stern sobriety
of the winter blizzard.

Violet whispers and the drunken
poetry of fifteen dancing cicadas
drown the furious orders of the priest.
'They will die by the morning'
he howls in distress to the north wind
but no one will listen to his sermon.

The preacher chants a canticle
from his god-fearing parchments
but he is too late to scold us
and all the poppies burst open
on the rocks with ungodly relish.