Severed Flight
Two as one— broad, grey wolf in hemlock crownedand fragile wren, discrete the moon-eyed face
against light plume, were perched in sorrow-boundchagrin; "For is my love so far misplaced?"
As beige leaves cascade slow, relives the houndwho fiddles with the bird's beat gloves of lace
echoes of before, the misaligned taskthe 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 looksof 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 scrawla 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