and the beating of her wings

[constantine]

and the beating of her wings comes softly
a rustle at the edge of awareness
a murmurous underlay, emerging
from the aether, like
the beginning of the rain
whose first drops are never seen
but felt, slowly coalescing
its liquid cadence fills the slats
the space within the clatter
repeating itself faster and faster yet
thunder...now
reverberating, this voice of god
whose complex syllabary
the body understands when the mind cannot

and the beating of her wings draws closer
though isn't it quite like her
to arrive earlier than expected
without a care for family or circumstance
there never seems to be enough
allowances for, preparations made - never
how could there be ever
caught short, the story of his life
diminishing returns of a diminishing future
i look into byron's eyes and see
frustration growing into fear,
the various schemes and strategies
that used to suffice are rendered useless
my advice rings hollow,
time tested ancient formulae
soothing placations for the supplicant
myself

and the beat of her wings descending
leaves no room for mistake or denial
like spanish moss, her silhouette
drapes about my brother's limb,
defining the margins -
the limits of his mortality
he grasps a pillow and wishes
for its soft deliverance,
like a mother's breast upon his open lips
a muffled prayer -
who shall ever hear?

the gift of destiny
is one which can never be returned

[still.trucking]

perfect poem
for me that means I can't pick any one line out of it and quote it back to you and say wow!

The poem has such integrity.

integrity:
an undivided or unbroken completeness or totality with nothing wanting

[constantine]

thanks. how you doing? did you read 309 - i dedicated it to you, tarbaby.

[tarbaby]

I am okay dino. No not really, stiff upper lip if nothing else is getting stiff these days.

I read 309
I liked it a lot

I read epitath too
which was food for thought