
Athanasia
When I place my head on your shoulder, and
nestle my existence in the nook of your athanasia,
your creed,
I inhale your earthly scent, and
our creation amalgamates borders — time, and
crosses the hands of god
Your drifting strands pluck a tune, on
the arching chords of my gamboling mane, in
union to our orchestral melancholic ballad
Your haleness, recherché in my memories hold
In the armored alcove of your cervix, my mask — falls
away, what is espied, the crux of a vow —
You are not here, but your convented scent lingers on,
and on, and…
In the strands of my mien,
tuned on the cords of your labium, in
the nook of your crevice, with
the strings of your bow, between
us lies two unhallowed worlds.
Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. April 2019. All Rights Reserved.






