Face Your Maker
I wish for nothing. But, in colour
They splash my bones -as flowers, rare
Dreaming still, they brim an’ lull’
On lucid thrones -they dare
Too ‘just’ visage -in blameless fleet
Or cannon a whisper, upon worlds defeat
They fold in cleft -all rooms, to bare
The dangle of toes an’ the pump of hearts air
But, still only echo -polluted, they groan
Falling ill an’ out an’ moral by meat
On dancing pavements an’ chalked to the stone
Alone they have ridden’, but hopeless they greet
So, face your maker. But, in colour
No labour, fierce angel -for who crowned you so rare?
For if you could shake, this world with a wish
Who holds the power –out there?
Copyright © Francois Hillebrand | Year Posted 2012
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