Willing

A poem of a story...

Feathers thrown about
The mossy estuary
Hot fur knows its place
Shrinking, while holding heavy breaths
That crush each waking space
Stale air
Although some can still inhale

 

Red grass
Upon the mighty roots
Salavating pleasure
Not an ounce
Of salty remince
Exposed to ungrateful

 

Eyes open
Pacing the sky
Coming towards you
But taking the crystal sheen
Draped with ancient lace

 

Or so we thought

Author's Note

And I saw it. Just lying there.

Reviews

[Vanessa]

I DID read this already.
And I liked it, especially the bit about "Salvating pleasure".
Well done, as always.

[Solst Rapture]

I am sometimes not a capable reviewer, leaving criticism for others to enjoy, for I do not enjoy it, for me I enjoy the music of your words and the images they create in my mind. I hope you accept my vision as a sure sign that you poured soul into me.

The sky trips and trips over itself,
It waits, it moves, it is the ocean.
Moss dripping from it in clumps,
falling to ground, exhilarated
and proud.

The crumpled bones of the fallen bird,
the graceful stillness of it,
Perched on it's side
laying close by.
Too young to die,
but dead none the less.

Somewhere in the skies a mother flies,
and somewhere else a child sits in it's nest, waiting,
hoping for her return.

Worlds apart we may not ever see
the same things, and with different sounds
we may never feel the same vibrations.

Some are lovelier than others,
quite as joyful as the swan on the pond,
floating past,
playing the water like a fiddle,
drifting like a feather,
halting silently as a beauteous figure
rises out of the water,
draped in white, ancient lace,
damp skin as fresh as an angel,
an amazing grace.

With the wind rushing through her hair
tussling past the trees
she walks off into the distance,
holding the swan in her arms,
with his eyes glaring with appeased will.
His orange beak opening and closing,
silently.