Wednesday, January 28, 2015
He Was My Flesh
He was my flesh when he died, sinking to the seabed,
Ablaze like flames of the entire globe, always in distress;
Wings were flying the soul with wool and cotton in sight,
Clothing had to be tired of the body at employment.
He was my soul of the day, happiness swung to the fellowship,
This wounded bat of the highest praise connected to the bay,
Then rays deceived its prey, with golden ways and obsolete ways.
He was my flesh of the days that yawned fiercely in stay,
Opening the sense of a singing party, a house of noise,
The one mansion called the soul of some plain light.
His flesh won the trophy glittering in some ancient sky,
Affording to interrupt the screen of bought bags
And data so ossified that retrieval was a must of a bag.
His flowing flesh endangered black clouds of speed,
Raining heavily with darts and supreme arrows of the innocent.
Topic(s) of this poem: body