Wings of Gold

 

~ Wings of Gold ~

 

Scouring wings of gold,

Gracing mysterious cries,

That ripped the black night,

Tearing in illusionary parts,

Chunks, which fell enamored,

Love-glued to lacy tendrils,

Of majestic rose and sunlit hues,

Embraced by an angel’s grace . . .

 

She sat quietly in pearl bonnets,

Of speckled sun-pressed orchids,

A Heavenly measure of braided,

Silver-tied rushes,

Within the pithy splendor.

 

A paint-brush feather,

An elaborate whistle, of silken clarinet sounds,

Lilting in a song beyond the Gates,

E’en though she would not lift,

Her blue eyes to glance upon,

The honeyed wings,

That scattered her life,

Into sweetened touches,

Licking her fair breast,

Gently, so calmly, a glaze,

It was all,

While the chipped glass majestic red,

 A creamy mist of herbs, and spices,

Heaven’s crystal-clear touch-

Mere measure-

That disavowed night,

In her favor,

Lending her just a bit,

Of its petals and scents,

The hues and delights of Our Father.

Midsummer Night's Ballet

~ Midsummer Night’s Ballet ~

Sensitive and graceful curvature,

Behind those dark lips,

A soft, enigmatic phrase,

That was upon his kiss,

Never seeking me out, and dying,

Beneath the soft pale features,

That starkly showed a contrast,

To the flames that spurred the devil-

Who had grasped him,

Tucked him within its clutches,

Sought him out, regaled him with bright touches,

That enamored the word, the art, the whole, the beautified,

Glory-path,

Bright pendant within the moon’s light-

And then the pale, sodden, wet tongue suddenly turned black,

The evil art of his own figurine body,

Yet a casted, a dancing ballerina-

In bashful loving . . .

A shard,

Of heavy glass,

Yet, one that trickled down from a sun-flecked window,

Glancing at me in the sunlight,

Through his tamed, empathetic, red-rimmed eyes . . .

That dark intertwined with the silver,

And that beautiful prose,

Who made him what he could only be-

A creative talent whisking,

Against the woods in a midsummer night’s dream,

Black as the ace of spades yet so white, so endearingly luscious,

A porcelain set upon my dresser,

And now I can only think-

That something has taken away,

The devil inside,

Yet his tongue is still two colors,

As I barely brush against his soul,

Alight with shuddering, forcefully teased pleasure,

Trembling spurted physical and spiritual strength,

And the enigmatic force,

That this person holds for me-

And the phrase is loosened,

As I finally hear him speak,

As together we chat,

In a passion,

Which never needs an ear,

For,

We never have need of talking. . .