When doves cry
the sky scatters tear-seeds -
diamond-hard shards of stars
that jewel his dark water-tomb with crystals of light.
The clouds are floating feathers.
Now what hand will seize
this weeping dove of grief and squeeze?
Whose fingers will grip the silk-white wing
and wring the lily of its neck?
The ringnecks wail their long lament...
His Symphonie Fantastique, a sabbath night's dream -
grizzled groans and moans and distant screams,
shrieking strings, fading cries of the meek and weak -
a tormenting dirge in his dying ears.
He was all hate, fate and fear,
incandescent, suspended
from the gibbet of public jeer,
all care cremated, with a yearning for burning.
Raging ashes imprisoned in a small salt urn
flung far into far-flung waves to churn
the unfathomable black light depths.
Wings alighting like white lightning
splitting the crying sky:
a choir of doves from above
to transcend and ascend and soft-sing him home.
Copyright © Charlotte Puddifoot | Year Posted 2023
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