they are angels ;
milky-white, star-spun bells
from which sway twisting ribbons,
dancing tendrils of sterling light & water.
heavenly figures of alien purity
drifting in cold, windless corridors of black crystal.
devoid of temporal rot.
their songs whisper to my shaken core.
stingers embedded in ivory flesh.
filling my veins with sweet poisons,
my mind with inane fantasies,
& wild compulsions.
ｎｏｔ ａ ｇｏｄ ｏｒ ａｎ ｉｄｏｌ，
ｂｕｔ ａ ｐａｒａｓｉｔｅ．
she's an island;
pale as the ocean mist
veiling the rugged shoreline.
with chubby freckled cheeks
framed by coppery red curls,
lashed up in fishtail braids,
or left loose in the salty breeze,
falling down to her shoulders,
broad and wind-weathered.
her laughter is the crash
of waves on the dock.
or the roar of the eastern winds,
that scour the northern seas.
here, on the edge of the atlantic.
amongst verdant glens of evergreen,
‘twixt feral realms of boreal splendour.
the wilderness calls to the heavens,
in a chorus of birdsong, of whispering leaves,
the howl of the wolf and the fawn’s tender cry,
from the fierce sanctity of mother earth.
her roots pierced below the powd’ry ground.
slender branches soaring skyward,
lined with strokes of emerald trusses—
their lissome needles gracefully sharp;
brushed in thin sheets of glittering frost,
& laced with a flurry of shimmering sleet.
adorned with clusters of robust pinecones,
russet blossoms of sturdy petals,
clustered upon the tails of branches,
& scattered throughout the sylvan floors—
cloak’d in silken blankets of snow and frost.
soaked in the cold gauze of lunar light.
— The End —