fallen verses

It is the time of delicate mystery.
The pale glow of distant streetlamps
suggests night-blooming flowers
not-so-distant I cannot smell the jasmine.

A candle burns before me, inconstant,
at the mercy of the breeze;
brighter, perhaps, than the horned moon,
though no match for its enigmatic beauty.

Unseen waves pound at my hearing
and I imagine myself carried away,
held by naiads and mermaids,
captive to an unseen siren.

Long before the sun brings stark illumination
I will return to this empty room and
wait for morning to reveal the spaces
unfilled since she left, and unfillable.