Now crusted with cloud which rolls the hills,
Where in black bracken flanks of wilted leaf,
The dying season sleeps in waves of silent fold.
For fame is as fleeting as an ever shifting sirocco,
Warm upon the wind, which then drifting slips,
Seeking always a strangers path, as feckless it flirts,
Whilst fools applaud the prison it makes its palace.
Across deserts of sand her dark pleasures slithered,
Wrapped in paper packets and priced by the pound,
Her shallow veins became a highway, ever hungering,
That led her down from the mountain and into a grave.
I saw her chase the fading sun, grasping its gold,
Fingering the fickle sunlight that flickered down,
She rose upon the needle then fell back to earth,
Blinded by her dreams, she died softly in my arms.
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