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tinhuvielI wrote a poem week before last, my first in ages. It's obvious I'm rusty. Grievously rusty...
REDWING
It was not the melody.
In those times, the birdsong was secondary.
The plumage of the urgent warbler,
Black upon black upon black,
Splashed with Atlantic hues and the promise of scarlet devotion.
It was not the melody at that time,
Marked molten in place,
In that delightful delirium.
It was primal essence woven in
Undiscovered Celtic paths.
The knots that bound my destiny,
The silent eyes screaming an undeniable command,
“Love me, only me.
“Adore all that I am
“And sing my song, like lullabies in dreams.” (3-13-2014)
REDWING
It was not the melody.
In those times, the birdsong was secondary.
The plumage of the urgent warbler,
Black upon black upon black,
Splashed with Atlantic hues and the promise of scarlet devotion.
It was not the melody at that time,
Marked molten in place,
In that delightful delirium.
It was primal essence woven in
Undiscovered Celtic paths.
The knots that bound my destiny,
The silent eyes screaming an undeniable command,
“Love me, only me.
“Adore all that I am
“And sing my song, like lullabies in dreams.” (3-13-2014)
