The Fever

If the gold threads of eclipsing towers

Are to rest upon the wings of pleasure 

The spent stripes of the calathea 

Will wilt before this fevered fur 

As bound crimson 

And lingering neon perfumes,

Guide us to this wistful spell,

By a dainty night 

In the cusp of imagination 

Stillness, solitude 

In accord to the gilded dove 

Thus perspired tears florid

For the wisp of a pulse into the velvet cloth of longing 

An ocean of embers are soil beneath stone 

In such acumen and guile

The moonlight yearning of sullen boards

Deemed silk and despair 

Yearned by the rendering crowns 

Of a marble shadow 

All to strike with the spark of a flowering sonnet 

Stillness, 

The decorated mounds of blue 

Harvested with thorn 

By inflamed pleasures.