It’s its wings I clamored upon
Agnostic wings of dirty white and ghastly transparency
I let the spirits of the air lift my brittle bones
Rolling quickly my side onto its feathered bed
My eyes were coal: deep and rooted
Blank, weary beads timid and ready
Resting upon a monster of a dreamscape
Impaired my tongue athirst and gripping
For condensation has landed its gentle palms
Allowing me only to open for a moment’s luminous kiss
Reaching my porcelain hands towards a jealous moon
A blazoned orb captures the face of the night
Bending its crescent into a harrowing edifice
Concluding that now a near-perfect sphere has perfected the purpose.
Foretelling the telling prospects of a newborn man

03/21/2008

Posted on 03/22/2008
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