Here’s my last minute entry to whimword’s #whimter contest.
After La Cloche fêlée by Baudelaire
Her pleasure is all,
warming the long nights of winter
at a fire that burns bright
who, in love with her youth,
throws faithfully her voice
into the open mouth of her lover.
Me, my soul is wracked with nonexistance.
I watch through the glass.
It often happens that my voice fails me.
I have felt the slow dissolution of a man who is
forgotten at the edge of a lake of youth.
I see condensation forming on the window.