Even falling from the azulets and the inky midnight pools.
Thrown across the sky like a firework, pulling a pantheon of pages closer,
Filled with the gleaming illustrations of otherworlds filled with forms of the ancients against the fire,
or heavens galore;
Buttercup faeries clinging to balustrades, the Knights of Osirus in orchestrated theatre
'Open the Gates' dictating the entrance to be filled with silver and gold plasterwork
They unfurl from the ceilings in blue and green smoke and sorcery
We appeared to claw them into this world, wrote against a Renaissance until they arrived.
Will they set the birds free? Or is it simply mental trickery?
Those which are clasped under the cages
Held in pet shops and markets, in barber shop windows and immortalised in Victoriana decoupage..
‘Priotise government’ they whispered to me
But can I hold the actors of politics in enough esteem
To maintain the illusion until I have cut the divide between their houses and mine
Keep my word to the ether and retain elocution in all weathers
When there’s guitarists on staircases and red wine and jazz in the lounge,
And dancers lining the ashtrays
Fey boys with violet eyes you fall in love with the moment you set yours eyes on them
Because they are so inspired
Perhaps a ring set with an amethyst jewel is clasped around a little finger
Or they arrive clothed in fresh twilight outside of a train station
When you least expect them and pull you close to their heart, entwined in excitement
Catch the strains and kin aesthetics of an Operatic aria with arms outstretched to an open sky, glorified:
‘Clasp this to your diamond star carriage starflesh, hold me in your arms and don’t let go’
as they show you a moon, and sing
‘Take your tears and petals from the edges of these pressed flower pages’
and the words gently hum in medieval verse
As would the choirs of the houses of the angels of the celestial,
if we believed in them and they didn’t divide light from the dark
and the sacred from the profane like a tear streaks across the face of an
empty man holding a knife in the dark,
Or a mother missing her child across the divide of countries
and stretches of veins apart and great wild expanses of skies.
Thinking about the cusp of life and the cradle’s edge
The fine tightrope of romance and fear, of sanity and knowledge
As we breathe and grow
And the pages flutter across the heavenly blooms and I linger
as a rose in stained light, with stained light eyes
and a stained light heart.