Mark Heathcote [none] (22/03/66 / Manchester)
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Flightless angels shall fervently stare
A little prismatic wing of love wings its way back for us all at once to try and cocoon its meaning and discover.
O’ what cherished rose petal flower buds with their sunlight’s rubicund rays will always deliver.
Yes a little flight of fantasy, a love that; could sojourn or rest with us or none other apart from him.
When their wings walk on the water… and their swift’s tail slices the sweet air we’ll swear his with her soul goes gently there.
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