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It Is Eye
There are, however, those blessed moments
of stillness in which all things stop breathing
and in whose violent silence it torments
none but itself- its own curse- believing.
In this retreat I rest my wings and lick
my wounds and remember how its horns broke
through my scales as we fell into the sick
chasm it knows all too well (like a stroke
of its callous tail) but scares me to Death
Every Time. The deeper we fall the more
I see that the light is here in this breath
in this our fire of forsaken lore.
The clanging of our claws it seems to be,