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.
Copyright © Ken Allan Dronsfield | Year Posted 2023
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