Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Blackwing










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

1 comment:

Shark said...

I like this one.