Breezes coddle feathers fly over ocean waves,
Psalms wrought her wings glide along old Polo’s route
‘Til tides not ebbed wrack the rocks at lighthouse gate
Comes her Knock
Still deludes, for yet yields not relentless night
A fool, has no deter comes seeking Ponce’s dream
And to snare, for selfish shadows eclipse her shine.
Black-turned moon returns her fear’s way home.
Coarse his voice, manner gruff, carriage haughty,
Hands decade’s toil worn, cut, broken.
Dues overpaid yet sought no refund,
Accolades hard-earned never came,
And ’twas when no more he spoke
Then canard’s fodder, they would not mourn.
Weary hand finds eleven
Save her whisper,
“Closer, ’tis not so late
Let savage winter chill your raging doubts.”
Stoke fading ember emblazoned on it,
I am with you
With you now
And I will make you dream again.
(The Truth of it)
Finds his rest where day winks glistened beams
robin rocks intoxicating slumber
mischief grin eternal though hushed in dreams.
An eye naught misses, hears from narrow squint
rustling feet tells mister quits there,
blinks his sleepy eye,
journeys to another place.