contemporary poetry

the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
darkest, strangest mystery
they may talk of love in a cottage
risen from the dead
sweet and strong
when the hours of day are numbered
sleep, gray brother of death
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
up from the south at break of day
lady, your heart has turned to dust
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens