WINGS

Saturated greens and blues
cannot fill this
emptiness. The artist weeps
in his lonely grave.

Submerse your colourless
smiles in the
blood of the Angels you hunt, 
in the glow of
pilfered stained glass lamps.

I do not see the sky that roofs
your world,
the gift wrapped clouds, each
enfolding a
surprise, seasons yet unknown,
unnamed.
Your rocks contain rainbows,
mine, leaden veins.

Thornless roses do not sing.
I miss the warm
patina of ageless picture frames.
You wear it now,
a noble veneer procured at the
furrier's. You see
the dull match head, I, the light,
the warmth it holds.

The falcon rises as a spirit is
felled. Would you
unite these into a single image,
into glorious omnitude? 
How would you tamp it 
robustly solid?

Your tongue conceals your
strickenness  
far better than your eyes.

My heart is tied to these spaces
as my spirit is
to my bones. There lie my
wings, by the bare
laburnum, beneath my share
of Sun, now long
passed into eternal rest.

Your personal philosophy cuts
through the garden,
ravages defenseless fields.
Beware, for smouldering embers
now descend upon
your palace of amethyst and
broken wings.

© 2014 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: galleryhip.com