poem by Anitra L. Freeman
That time of month thou mayst in me behold
when yellow skin, or pale, or gray does hang
upon these limbs that shake the paper, rolled,
against all choirs, and bares the ruined fang.
In me thou see'st the midnight of such day
as with relief does ride off to the west,
which black moods by each cry doth eat away -
death's second self, which stuns but does not rest.
In me thou see'st the raging of such fire,
paints dreams of glory on the blackened sky,
and makes the dark bed where it must expire,
consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong
to love that well which thou must shoot ere long.
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