In the eerie dawn light,
elms, oaks and pines
bend to the whims of a screaming puppeteer.
Inside dimly lit temples,
symbolic art clings to its secrets.
Deep in the heart of the pagan cathedral,
psychedelic architecture strikes like DMT.
The optical illusions outnumber the rats.
On the surface,
long since toppled marble headstones
beg to be restored to their former glory.
Dilapidated crypts, in a forest of weeds,
are macabre squats, so fitting for junkies.
It’s too late to charge them with trespassing.
As you eat breakfast on the branches
of a fourteenth century fig,
I disappear to compose a poem,
in which we share wild berries in a kiss.
Should I call it a prophecy?
This morning I prophesized laps of the solar system,
in a hot air balloon, so why not.
In a deserted Mosque,
I watch the gleam of amusement in your eyes vanish,
to be replaced by a haunted look
but those heavenly lights never dim for long.
Dusk comes too fast.
We head back through pines, oaks and elms,
still dancing to the whims of a screaming puppeteer.