Severed Flight

Two as one— broad, grey wolf in hemlock crowned
and fragile wren, discrete the moon-eyed face
against light plume, were perched in sorrow-bound
chagrin; “For is my love so far misplaced?”
As beige leaves cascade slow, relives the hound
who fiddles with the bird’s beat gloves of lace
echoes of before, the misaligned task
the lament of she who last bore the mask.

What mem’ries have she of the vain life which took
her mind, that in conticent repose reflects
pestilence, decline— depraved, satisfied looks
of desp’rate men and heretical prospects;
Knowledge from which her fragile sanity shook,
through which innocence this malady infects—
the sickness of ignorance forced by one’s pain,
and towards him, discontentment— shallow disdain.

No thought of trauma does her heart recall,
nor remains knowledge of solemn relief
granted by his worn arms catching her fall,
ideas regarded in disbelief
by her weathered heart, for her sworn to scrawl
a picture without love, and without grief.
And thus, her wings rise, though the wolf protects,
and flies from his view in calm disconnect.

Nov. 01, 2020

The path into the light seems dark,
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.