teen poems

when the wind works against us in the dark
the long resounding marble corridors
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
i stood
eighty years have passed, and more
my mother taught me that every night
her face is fair and smooth and fine
the ancient songs
in mournful numbers
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
in and of itself
lady, your heart has turned to dust
when i returned at sunset
master of human destinies am i