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The Death of Leonardo
Through mountain lands and skyless worlds,
where spine leaved verdant ferns unfurl,
the peach haired man stirs slow and long
in fronds of fragrant feather curls.
His pink eyes part and look once more
towards his loving painted bride,
a perfect instant caught inside
the eyes of graven youth that died,
a youth he craved before.
The king is weeping, lost and grey
he cradles wisps of failing hair.
The aged sage will soon away
to skys where cyan sunsets play,
to crags of tears and mares of clay
and starlit silver stairs.
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