Tipping a Falcon's Wing

A hazy crimson light races a soaring falcon as swallows spiral all about the rainbow sky, Above the Jersey Shore where zeppelins rose as far as a teary eye can see, within eternity. As I slowly close my dry, weary, reddish eyes those old memories of whence I was not alone pour forth in an enchanting new kaleidoscope with vast illumination and electrified emotion. I wish to depart and plunge into a limpid sea; become lost upon the arid shores of vastness; a lover without love; beauty with a heartbeat lost but never alone; a victim of guilty pleasure. In dungeons of dark, shadowed desperation many ghostly spirits hunger for life’s essence flowing between the veil as mists rise at sunset upon the icy breeze, tipping a Falcon’s wing.