Saturday, 11 September 2010
with the soft warm body
of a familiar concubine.
Wrapped in silken elegance,
a quiet repose of divinity refined.
Three burns you have suffered.
The first, born of iron,
betwixt a sufferance of repose,
the last, surging through your aching muscles
in the final ascent of the mountain,
peeked with a cross, in the fading light of day,
flecked with oranges and pinks, mauve hues,
weaving there gracious spell throughout you.
Released from the fires torment,
licked at in the descending twilight,
allowing the earth to pull you down,
down into its communal womb,
the hive of sanity within the chaos of doubt.
Left only the fading scars of past remembrance,
the aging ruddy relief of dazzling ennui,
and the ache of that final climb of Grace,
a climb that eased the sombre notes,
etched upon the anguish of your face.
A mirror of your own soul,
shining now, clean again,
the dust, wiped from the edges and the surface,
reflecting true images,
transposed in just relief,
upon the silver of its shimmering surface,
to catch the light that once you bore,
and shine it onward, evermore.
Liberty, a state of grace,
born not from a desperate race,
away from something,
but an embrace of all that once was,
a free flight, with replete wings
into a dawns delight,
where our dreams, tinged with harmony,
echo the light within us that forever sings.
© Richard Michael Parker 2010
Posted by RMP at 18:02