Let the mystery be

An entire buttersweet
slice
from each generation
set aside
as
dotty English ladies
maiden aunts
barking at sickle moons
railing at injustices
only they can fathom
or
possibly name
I’ve liked some of them
as a species
individually
have loved fewer
in ways too twisted
to reveal
or mention
anywhere else than
their sacred
scented
pillow’d beds
engineered
in halls of mourning
hallowed palaces
bursting with ghosts
spirally creating
more urge
by their aching
unquenched
desires
passing before them.
I found them
in darkened places
slow tears rolling
dripping to space
coutoure’d cloth
in stunning inarticulacy
unlike
later screams
cleaving doors
hearts
our proposed orderly
futures
where they landed
lies
way
beyond my ken
for I shared them
such short time
whether
I pushed them
further
along lofty panic’d ledges
or
created joy’d escapes
only they
as then
as ever
will know

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