What a Lark

"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.