The sound begins.
Floating notes from a golden bough,
leaves drifting, turning,
soft as his angel’s kiss.
His once beautiful facade
has played the harmony of autumn’s fading.
Once was the sound of his wings.
The tenderness lasts.
Falling forever into a lover’s feathery touch,
caresses of lace lined clemency
within a potent command.
He lays upon a bed of down,
embracing with silken, gossamer moments.
Once was the touch of his wings.
Existence could be eternal.
Born into the radiance of the morning star,
a glorious presence spurned
away from the intimacy of others.
Crawing indignation at the un-just
with every heavenly beat of his strident span.
Once was the strength of his wings.
Soaked in blood.
Perfection withers away
as time burdens his despair.
Black feathers stained with impurity.
An eclipse shadows his eyes,
darkening in the everlasting torment of nature.
Once is the death of his wings.
M.R. Hume © 1997