Dusk hovers above the moor,
Feathers cascade soft and pure.
Settling on the spongy quagmire,
whilst a sunset shimmers waning fire.
Wind-kisses set plumage aloft,
Ivory veined wisps flutter soft.
A reminder even angels wilt fall,
Heeding Lucifer's iniquitous call.
Prone on a satin coffin bed,
I rest my weary lifeless head,
My soul adrift upon the moor,
Reverent at the feathered soar.
Encased within the wondrous awe
I beget feelings of a mighty draw.
Brimstone belches across my face,
A besotted soul fallen from grace.
My awe usurped by kismet sorrow,
For redemption remote on the morrow
A resigned descent for ashen bone,
Conception dawns the feathers my own.