The drawbridge across the brambles…

Memories are like the motes—cordoned
Around some ever increasing scrubland...
Where; little or nothing else can be seen…
Except the stoical boatman, who goes to glean?

The waters statically, between; those subject.
The fished-remains, distorted recollect.
The prison the ruin-tower a castles turret
The blackened charred bodies tarred palette.

Tinged memories are flung, far and wide!
“Everything is loosely, sketched—dockside”.
The porcelain hand of love the dead poet, buried
When; your heart was a miniscule galaxy.

Still big enough to hold a world—sullied
And lower the drawbridge, across; the brambles forcibly.