Low Flies Lover’s Trek
Suddenly . . .And suddenly again, we all sat amazed at wing span low
Sipping horizon honey wine and laughing with troll friends now,
What a graceful lover “she” is . . .”she’s” on clouds. . .she’s aglow.
Could it be, maybe it is her anger. Maybe betrayal. Or just tired of painful bows.
Dark, with endless colors inside and out—running wet, stepping slow
She takes her gift of chameleon’s skin, his silent grimace to gaze.
Pink body ecstasy with waterfall skies; angels cry in silver cathedrals’ foe.
“She” lied with a dead tongue once, telling love so to raise.
Dark Woman oh, Midnight Spirit she’s called; prancing slow, talking so, so
Judge of Judges scorn her with left eye fire; his white robe furls.
“She,” staring so defiantly ebony pupils spitting sparks screaming no.
Midnight Chameleon, what can this be? You are her breath and golden curls.
Alas, my forlorn beauty so restless, cold, and beholden
I gladly trade breath-for-breath your ready crown
I am but a pauper, a lover’s thief, a tale shining golden.
Look down, Dark Lover, I am fading, dying, fall, falling down.
© 2020 Kenneth Avery