Midnight Moorings

This still adamant wintry cold
abuses SPRING, as its usurper,
the blinds are drawn by the
mechanical hands, unwilling
colours of night slowly merge
into sprawling Silence,
my eyelids close after
avowed application into
books of poetry, Divine music,
while the ever tuning music
of heart sings the
melody of metempsychosis,
where does the SOUL
transmigrate, how, on what?
your body with flesh ,perfumed,
is the tree with green foliage once,
now is it only dried, brown,
a barren stem? Or dried twig?
Those fallen leaves are
brittle, supple, driven
by those fierce winds,
Just as this flesh
thrown as carcase, fetish
no longer, yet unwillingly,
you have to leave
the bonded kinsmen
to a different habituation,
your eyes close to
an awakening of
newer revelation.