Monday, March 2, 2015
Our burning heads corrode the flesh of our windows,
This glass inside stings the inner heart and royal men
Enter the coppice, so strange a dented landing.
These royal hearts exit, for the welcoming commanders,
Emperors of the legion who speak of wonders in times
Ahead, the ones who beckon the eagles of the night.
This is surely a phoenix, a ready victim seems to elude it,
The pain inside is of the heart that screams out with trees
Grown in place, a royal man called a King is appearing
From the ridges of the plain, placing his head on a bed
That beams on with golden light in the silver night,
The silent night of pain and pleasure and noise so strange.
But the burning heads are loops of the eternal size,
Fire has a sire, sending a hatched egg to someone
Who can beg, little laziness seems too brittle.
The sure phoenix shines with malicious voice,
Internal harm is a harbour of the real rights,
The sure phoenix seems to beam on our burning heads.
Topic(s) of this poem: pain