a silent, feathered shadow.
and flies so far above me
her eyes i cannot see.
her wings, they trace the morning sky,
then gently they erase it.
she crawls so far beneath me,
a green and growing seed.
And as she scrambles from the earth,
I pluck her purple flower-
I smell her brilliant colors
and taste her perfumed scent,
and i wander lost yet peaceful
in her sunlit bower.
I pick her sweet and ripened fruit,
her juices dripping down,
and laugh amongst her sharpest stars,
and whispered evening showers.
in dreams she brings me gospel hymns-
a choir to my bleeding sorrows.
and its to only me she sings.
yet only me who fears tomorrow.
I plant my soul beside her,
My roots they grasp in deep descent-
in darkness i will wrap myself around her,
and in that sacred moment
this empty life that i once knew
will reach its final, aching end.
Never raging screams,
for one’s an angry nightmare,
the other, moonlit dream.
One a peacock’s feather
that softly strokes your face.
the other a hard and bloodied fist
you run in terror to escape.
The fist demands attention,
the feather, it implies
and asks you to embrace its pleasures-
kisses you at night.
The fist shouts aimless angry threats
of loss and pain and war,
then kills your weak and broken soul
with vague and empty lies.
but the fist can hold the feather tender
when the time is right.