“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Masonic
Not angelic, nor demonic,
it was likeness to life,
in a liberated angel
hiding her alabaster feathers
in columns of strata.
A marvelous made thing
it became, a mass to marvel,
an icon only outlined to invoke awe
from the stony faces, whose eyes hollow
pink granite and glisten in
a miraculous crust
that makes a life
out of our dust.
Photo By Smithsonian Institution from United States of Betty Richard, American sculptor B. 1916 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Objectified
The thing about Americans are all the Things- So many things, more and more than ever before buried in crap, cremated in mishaps. We make, w...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...

No comments:
Post a Comment