markbousfield

A dance of a boy of a dance,
refined through mist his satchel of thinning blood,
as though it were lean from the East,
of late thirsting blood,
quenched a sweet tooth by an apple green,
green as the stables wrought from emerald
in a pasture drawn clinically
in pregnant providence.

From those fallen plumes of black peacock feather,
a spire from the breast pocket of a friend long dead,
a spectoral fire of old virtues and sacrifice,
on the death of another,
the weakness in the heart of proud men,
of a God,
the deathbed breath returning to the willing lung,
to goosey skin warmth called by the will of love,
Fallible inertia of fearful walls walking taut sinew by sinew,
the cathedral floor and the reflection of your face in the tiles,
refrained by the height of the whispering dome of St. Paul's.