The colours blossomed around your casket
in fractured bone and tiny fragments
eschewed from your spectre's pounce
into a newborn flame ensconced.
Singe, burn, and cleave the flesh
to create a womb for your soul's own
ease, a spirit's rest.
The wards alight with the age old
spark of life. It sputters and reignites
the flaming irises in an infants eyes
and as it wails drawing breath
it inhales time, to digest.
YOU ARE READING
She, Infinity
PoetryI mean to place sight within the constraints of sound and drive it into the bed rock, the foundation of feeling, literally rather than metaphorically.
