Untitled

There is bittersweet agony

When cutting open a path

To live and write

To walk while loving another

With the freedom one loves art,

And for that the sun looks deep

Almost sad

Contained in his rigid halo,

Silent in his home of brass;

Maybe the gold that poured

From his burdened royal eyes

Dried into a safety fence or the artist willed it so;

But here I see, master sun,

A bashful sphere of light,

Of heat seeking to end in the empire of night,

Of feelings I feel, too,

Despite the blaze of my youth;

And beyond your eyes I see,

Within pupils of round hope,

The promise of Shangri-La,

Liquid, moldable,

Chanting that metal suns

Can still glimmer with the dawn. 

Reviews

[Patrick Roach]

Excellent piece, I adore your writing style.

[Marian Elizabeth]

Thank you :)