Wings
I feel the scorn;
white lies, beneath,
alabaster, undaunted, cold.
Remaining unborn;
not to be reached,
entombing the windows to soul.
It is content;
head bowed in rage,
to drown in its own contention.
Intellect bent;
decorating cage,
comforts of creature's invention.
So; it's apparent,
echoes of crucial,
logic is stoic release.
Is it inherent;
questions for mutual
self destruction of peace?
Yet in the thunder;
I shall not quake,
promises hide in my smile.
Amusing to wonder;
the ways I could break,
solace for a little while.
Memories scream;
nightmares testify,
spirit is wired for sound.
Deep in this dream;
lost in the sky,
detesting the notion of ground.
Push; pull, tug,
caress, fight, hug,
labyrinths to navigate.
Droned incantations;
loud mute oblations,
whisper,"please salivate."
Still in the end;
my best brightest pleasure,
as geisha survives to kneel,
submission, the trend,
varnishing treasure,
slowly loses appeal.
Resistance; my flow,
it transcends this broken,
I fail to edit your pride.
So feel it grow;
misery unspoken,
replacing what I choose to hide.
Skin that is parched;
refusing to weep,
though blood drips from your crown.
I stretch to arch;
my wings while you sleep,
I'll die before laying them down....
Copyright © Carol Richard Weyler | Year Posted 2011
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