Blackwing
Poison lies in wait, not about
To fill three trumpets with spit
While someone beats a drum. Not
Quite. It knows to tread softly up
The stone stairs.
And fear as a signal fails the wary
At a point where trust meets what
Love should be. Would be.
Easier to run from a killer than from
One who meant for you to end
Yourself.
There is no rhyme in this tale, yet
You look. Dammit, do not look.
It is not here in what happened
Nor in the poem of it.
No rhythm. No meter.
You know you survived.
Let that be enough for now.
Enough, even as you yet pant.
Hiding your face in your hands,
I urge you to part two fingers.
Friend, the stone steps are silent.
Remember. In the ascension,
You knew it to be an angel.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007
