sad poetry

to the passionate lover
the ancient songs
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
take my bracelets
with the sunset
to clothe the fiery thought
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
these be
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
in may
above them all, looking down
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
with the meek, brown eyes