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The Sky Is Moulting
by Philip F De Pinto
Strands of fallen angel hair, cooking, convulsing in their airy cistern,
Clamor and slant and strain through the frosty colander of my brain,
As if they were to be served al dente on my gloomy tray;
As if they were golden files to gauntlet through the needle's myopia,
To sew wings on one's back, wrested from a beauty sleeping too long on her belly
That one beating such might be wrested from his doldrum
Of biding time laid back on his prison bunk;
That one beating such might gain altitude to go along with emancipation
If only for a little while,
Flying about and brightening the darkling prison until twilight
When such threads were expected to be unraveled and returned to the ether;
As well make restitution of wings to beauty, but not before they laid me gently down
To reverie until the morrow when such strands of fallen angel hair
Would come streaming down and bubbling in their airy cistern,
And clamor and slant and strain through the frosty colander of my brain
And have one gaining altitude to go along with emancipation, if only for a little while
Flying about the gloomy prison wrested from his doldrum
And at the end of the golden trip lay me gently down to pray before my bunk,
That the morrow is not a cloudy day.
01/19/2013 Posted on 01/19/2013
Copyright © 2024 Philip F De Pinto
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Veronica Phoenics on 12/01/13 at 01:18 PM to me, this is an intricate, engaging depiction of being in a depressive state, i love what you've done with your thoughts, you've taken those angel hair threads and weaved them into something beautiful. |
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