Monday, March 2, 2015
Power within shall win in the end as it is shallower
Than the powers that be, winning is the ultimate deed.
The arm wields a word of the same, a language of heaven,
The very surprising dream, a sentence of a summer day.
Hands connect to bespeak with pain, angers collide towards
The walls of a fiery gaze, so that magic powerfully emanates.
The fire of the soul is upon us in every way that beleaguers
The brain, a proud ornament of the visual senses.
Powers bespeak, their venom is alive to the heavenly ding,
The dong of the whim and the swish of the tail and wing.
Flying to the moon, keeps a conundrum alive in deeds,
Beholding the everlasting light so witnessed by some who dine.
Topic(s) of this poem: power