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Balancing the Clouds on the Tips of My Toes
Certainly, the roses haven't even bloomed,
since you dived back into the sky.
Flights of feathers, bed of clouds, they cradle you
and hold you in their sweet lethargy.
Woven into my dream of you is a sinewy terror,
all frozen around your arms, climbing into my
recall, fixing my gaze into a different set of eyes,
occluded of any heavenly respite or truth.
Talent like yours shouldn't idly be wasted spent mending,
preparing for the stage but tripping on footlights,
a final blinding of a doe, catching no rememberences;
idle hands falling to dust from disuse, scattering thorns.
