and I asked myself about beauty and freedom
and these golden wings I daily clip to keep myself grounded.
I dreamt that the Wind carried a whisper from someone's tears,
inviting me to lie in its ocean of hue and calm.
But dreams are a cripple that Jesus does not heal,
the epics of yesteryears when questions had no legs
and there was a peace we did not know,
the snow-soft bones of which trembled beneath the fragility of words.
Sometimes I wonder whether this human inside
is a phoenix, or whether the skeletons in my
closet, closed, clothe me in the cloths of colorful array
merely to invite these strangers to dance
in the moonlight obsession.
Are we the embrace before the sunset?
O lilac, riddle me this:
Did the blood turn violet yesterday on its own accord,
witch-like, this cackle on fire with hysterics,
when it seemed the shadows laughed
and I was the silence in someone's eyes?
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