Tempus Fugit

Everything collapses into stillness now,
your sketch of sacred curves,
the fainting rays of light
that seep through the blinds,
obsessed with your back.

There are no restful seas
able to rival this trick
of prophetic silence
about to read a scroll of flesh.

Olympic in the dark you seem,
like a goddess lost inside a mortal shell,
the hallowed vapor off an eternal crystal
that I seek to adore.

It is you. Mine. Proscribed. Surreal.​