Anthesphoria

The moon, clandestine.

Drifting behind midnight shades.

Yet stars glisten, shine

in the chasm of closed eyes.

In the nectar of wine flowing,

saccharine vows diminish

and honey memory fades

in the pomegranate seeds.

Maiden, fate resigned

that should live but in part,

first a daughter

only then, wife.

Love knows not of kindness, he says.

A myth paved in stone,

carved by waters of forlorn,

seeping into the Boatman's oar.