*Of Anagapesis and Laconic Love* Those poems shine in dern- The darkness of my own fears, A sciamachy rides me, as I sit To write another laconic poem, With my black ink of grief, on The pages of a withered petal Of red rose which was our love. Laconic love. Anagapesis. Period. //Caption *Of Anagapesis and Laconic Love* Why do I feel like a poem incomplete, left to rust, by the agents of time and love and oblivion? Why do I feel like a poem,
