by Steven Craig
That must be a storm front
A relentless chill in the airs
Quivers the core
Winds blow the black cats fur in reverse,
raising its talons to discharge electric sparks
As well as they caress the leaves,
they bend the branch.
Crows flock only where the sparrows used to dwell,
calling for the night hours still to come
Wings ride the air,
whether bee or butterfly
Dragons, they are,
cursed wildly for all the torment they spread in the coming storm
Riding out the storm extends all shares of energy.
Only a curse when one sees it as such
Blinded by the shearing breath,
fumes that god disdained till the nights sorrows of all pleasure.
Breath is beside its self,
only as two travel together
Grasped in talons pared for justice,
as a slave is carried to her master,
the beast beckons,
To fly away to the Dunes,
to be buried by time,
to breathe only flames,
parched desert winds kisses its lips.
The *touch* of magnificence
~ love's ALL ~