Where Halos Grow: A Mortal's Dream
The forgotten Light lifts us safely up on shady spectrums of unread, bent fragile seraphim wings,
while mourning pulls our waking dreams unravelling like crimson string, life-bleeding toward a forgotten Sun,
poets ruinous and high-strung, spin scattered, fragile stanzas out of darkness facing the undying lores of Love.
Terraforming nightmares into hope, outside mourning we poets watch the ever-rising sun
redefining the darkness that once rested on each quill of our ceaseless moving, broken blackbird wings;
for every turning leaf, a new page sprouts green halos in the eternal name of Love.
We mortal poets must dream until the mourning breaks crystal clear into the realm of Love,
and tidal pools where treasures lie unseen, launch golden dragonflies on freshly gifted omen wings
to bear the burning truth of a forgotten life full-lived, imprinted by a quiet timeless sun.
Don't you know we must lose our wings to stand like mortals unlike Gods,
to gather hidden pearls of Love beneath a forgotten Sun?
Candide Diderot. ‘26
(18th Sept 2026)
happy birthday...
"I was told if I fell in love with a poet
I would become immortal,
so I decided to become the POET
and make all those who touched my soul,
eternal."
(M. Lee)
Contemporary Tritina.
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