when autumn starts to cleave the air
and daggers fall
the crispered leaves of a painted clowns tears fall
the breath of life sweeps up all our
summers long and scatters them in
trees of life exploding spring
joy their fragile painter be the sun on the last day of its burning
and death scrivens up all our swansongs
in wintered dreams
a prelude to a quartet in palaces of sainted vespered Kings
they spiral to the heavens of any God
the Devil be their tour guide
through the canyons of the soul
Flynnpoetry 