Falling down and down,
wings melting to wax
until he's submerged
in inky blackness.
Falling from the
clear blue sky,
away from the
glowing, golden orb
hung high above in the air
that he flew too high, too close to
in admiration and enthrallment.
Is this treachery,
is this betrayal?
Of the sky?
Of the sun?
Of the freedom
he'd giddily reveled in?
Is he not supposed
to consider it as such?
Even as he tries to steal
a breath from the cruel water
of the capricious and cold ocean,
gasping and painfully alone?

Perhaps comparisons to you, m’ love,
will be of such fluttering birds with their
silken pearl plumage; soft and fragile dove.
I would challenge those who with this compare.

To do so would create such metaphors with
something mild and predictable, delicate.
You are not breakable or dainty, keen scythe.
You are a graceful storm to not abate.

Mayhap I could liken you to a blade,
a dagger wrapped within smooth satin.
To a deathly flower; lethal nightshade.
For to a white swan you are akin.

Know that a dove is equal your beauty,
yet you are deadly elegance, truly.

Creation thrums through my veins,
perhaps in place of crimson blood is ebony ink.
I breathe life into you
with sweeping movements of hands
        that leave gray marks onto paper,
or the touch of a nib
        to vellum where smooth, stark black is left.
I make worlds with my words,
weave tales of fantasy and adventure,
of creatures mythical and unreal.
Pour myself out as I write,
        as I create and make and forge,
                until all that I am is this creation,
                are these words.
This is an obsession that consumes me,
a passion that leaves me rambling,
a love for this oblivion it gives me.
        For the way all that matters is my words,
        the way I form worlds.