Morrow
I, behind fallen tree, hear bittersweet elegy
As many pass through the dark mists, pained
So I set in mind, distorted portraits in time
Like Clarke’s icons of Poe and glass, stained
Transcended smile and wait, while we consecrate
Our incongruous fumbling to grasp what is gone
For grander than memory is the soul’s swaddled beauty
The douse of a candle, the first gleam of dawn
– Victor Azotea
October Process 