Green Cypress Hills… Poem by Mark Heathcote

To fan the dying flames of a smothered heaven
what bellows of indignation?
Would it take; not to rediscover one late pm
some evil angel's wing baring our master's gate
'maybe a kind of former self's agent of the night.

Definitely blocking any further investigations
yes, green cypress hills, this… will's me.
I would long, walk-in those green pastures of peace
angelic-as-a-child, beneath his first Christmas tree
wearing a lamb's wool-coat; kings Golden Fleece.

Headfirst, in a sibling, race likes a Gingerbread Man
on the Trial of the Big Bad Wolf,
in a race for gifts, ranging from…
silk-moth caterpillars to chrysalis—cocoon butterflies
with antennas turned about-face.
Face to face, in order we interface with all of Heaven.

I would long, walk-in those green pastures of peace
angelic-as-a-child, beneath his first Christmas tree
wearing a lamb's wool-coat; kings Golden Fleece.
To fan the dying flames of smothered heaven
there on-by, blow my own; bellows of indignation?
On some evil angel's baring, wing at our master's table.