these are gems
your tongue kissed in a fit of pink.
your luminous dark, weaving sharp cotton to photons as swiftly as first love.
you are remarkable. so mark.
these are the feathers of dead wings, staring at the sun through the ashes of Icarus
unharmed.
a blindfold of petulance between the deep and the blue
aloft.
this is the air that we breathe, you and i
the construct, struck dumb by the fierce knowing of a soul
the ponderous gaiety of lithe thoughts
that shimmer-twink
in the bleak fears
just cause.
an Earthless
poised in random
sky
but now
adorned.