The autumn encroaches my delineation
In its zibellino accessory
Muddles my repose
Pigments my memory
Jams snouts and tails
At the bottom of dusty brush washers
Brutality demyelinates my axons
I am groping for the point
I’d lost myself
In the smother of your dry water colors
Which moisture now
Is only a word
A domino mask
I hide my folds behind
Together with your transfusing talent
Cleared long ago with the ether.

In my memory
You smiling in a floral apron
But not keeping apples in its pocket
That year the apple tree withered
And mother was worried
About the winter preserves.
The bunch of elderberry
Held on the flat of your perfect hand
Was enough for us
To purport purple line.

There is something elusive
Beyond the window frame
Where the languishing moon is dangling.
Like a pita bread, you said,
Coated with honey
But nibbled
Because too perfect bodes no good.
Before glimmering here
It has been somewhere else
There my callow fingers
Were milking the stars to harmonize hunger´s cacophony.
Honey and milk- how classical,
An elixir for eternal beauty
Though an ideal snack in case of sleep’s abdication.
But for whom?
Crumbs transformed to shadows
Leaping behind my back
Cordoning you off.
Hope is outflowing from my strained guts
Leaving them swindled
After your image dispersion.
Tempus edax rerum.

Vyara Kozareva lives in Bulgaria.