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"What a Lark"


I used to be inspired once
like a lark beating it’s wings 
higher and ever higher into a
golden and blue eggshell sky.
Hailstones hit me 
during ascension 
and I’ve fallen
into steep decline,
lying on a pavement somewhere
where bystanders walk by 
ignorant and blind
to this broken 
once shiny-winged lark 
who sings no more
only breathing out shallow stories
bleeding into the right-hand margins
of a page, in a final chapter with no lines,
it's not lore.

Written on the body
deep under the skin
where no one else can see me
save a person pluck each feather out 
and make them as their quill,
you could try to find a story there
if you dare -
then go ahead 
and dip your chosen quill 
in the heart inkwell
of this Lark,
and continue writing for her 
with her magic blood from heart
to your heart, 
but not in spite;
The Lark’s story 
bleeds into that spartan white page 
with no lines
except those damn margins 
are keeping everything in
so tight and refined; 
the rules are the margins 
that require erasing 
by and by.

There is a white page 
begging to be coloured
with beautiful visages and rhymes
with more than what is read
you may find a story there my friend -
it’s of smoke and mirrors, grit and city
flights of love and
mores the pity
betrayal and disloyalty 
and lies the hailstones hit
but they’re melting to invisibility
when the Sun shines out it’s ****
and she's remembering now
all that is hidden beauty in her dreams
as her eyes close softly lit.

The Lark lies on the pavement 
breathing her stories out 
into the Etheric Plane
bit by bit, 
but no one holds the key yet,
to her Very Sacred Script.

A big black cat strolls ever closer by
arching his back he sees The Lark
and wonders why she don’t cry,
spill her guts;
He is drawing ever closer now, 
so close he can feel her breath
and he reaches out a paw
"silently amuse me", he purrs, "just a little tweet",
A muse silently and slowly awakes 
to touch his claw with her beak
and she tries 
to taste the sweets.


Lovejoy-Burton, December 2017.
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