Fugues in April

All is curling up  

like the sun’s cloak of dusk.  

A silent knight passes me by.  

Hooves muffled by the howls. 

The night sky is alight  

With that twilight summer sun.

A blindfolded woman,  

Sits across the pond.  

The water stirs with giant hands, 

Pulling the bridge  

Beneath its sheets.  

A crescent crown bids the day goodbye. 

A bard’s voice shivers in the eve. 

Humidity slides across the trees. 

Carriages sneak past beaten paths. 

Boozing begins early today,  

It is the final day before Octavian.

Enochian graffiti 

Penned in neon paint,  

Provides the ramparts  

With a silent voice.  

The Dragon’s Eye remains vigilant. 

The eve releases a sultry sigh. 

A morose gaze looks back  

Through the summer haze  

Of pleasure past, pain recalled. 

This isn’t right.  

One cannot with hindsight  

Look upon the future.  

I haven’t walked these steps yet. 

Exile teases me  

Through Spring’s sunny tutting. 

I turn back to look the present 

In the eye:  

The hermit meets me on the way, 

“Sum quod eris,” he says.  

Tramps love to bully me  

With epitaphs  

In my dreams.  

I slouch back to April’s final week. 

Providence and foreboding  

Shouldn’t taunt me  

With scenes  

Of Melancholia.

Tuur Verheyde