All Revolutions Vanish

Revolutions vanish, perfumed with midnight's regret,

A passing parade of fever, of poison and kiss,

Their pageantry dissolves in perfumed decay,

Yet the soul remains beset by old serpents of bliss, in the velvet gloom where old banners rot.

We taste the wine of lost ideals and flame,

The sweet, obsessive cycles of yearning,

Twist, then wither in the hollow of shame.

No clock can number the ache of return,

For every dawn carries vestiges of rot,

Each age’s rebellion becomes autumn’s wilt.

Dead petals, revived by the promise forgot. Beneath these perpetual seasons of revolt.

The heart bends, bruised by its own delirium,

Not in the linear lie of years do we measure,

But in the endless perfume of suffering’s continuum.