Iris Grey alle Mann’s eyes
Shall he stand or falter
Anger lost is never found
Until he’s lost his ‘halter’, unsound?
In hindsight he might sigh
or say it didn’t matter either way
To be greatness bound is no small thing yet he may
fall upon his ‘please’.
Not a temporary kneeling either if he goes down at another’s behest it won’t be so neat.
He smolders, is not driven, but fearless, his pride, cold, one of secret purpose
The momentum of his passion will be his embers glow
until he’s lost control and grows volatile then he’ll burn the heavens rows.
Heaven? He’d laugh at one’s presumption, and with a congratulatory nod to himself, would believe he was the better, and all the rest of us just simple fools.
Despite his fiery temper it is not blight I think he carries.
He is the reaper that burns at harvest’s end, to remove the diseased and dreary, to make way for newest growth, so tender shoots can show their heads with sturdy roots instead.
Tis neither good nor bad unless he wrecks a “Hybrid” crop.
For daylight surely needs darkness as companion’s end.
Perhaps it is the Sinister Spin that requires the blackest mate, I do not know the answer, I don’t answer it’s his fate.
His darkness shows a sinister glow, and army scarred in fear, and yet his conquest seems righteous yet not to those so nere’.
On pathways of destruction lead by dark horseman’s truest mount, forward march indeed he’ll plow, a supersonic wave, perhaps eclipse the speed of sound and find the ‘better’ way.
His white horse alas forgotten, deemed a worthless steed, he missed the point entirely, it wasn’t the steed indeed, but the woman to hold the reigns’ of a team over 1800 head strong...
Good thing I persevered...
you don’t appreciate being alive and well, and you never will.
To prosper in a gin mill one mustn’t light his amber seal in haste, for his bluest flame will meet the ‘spirits’ and he’ll risk incinerating fate.
The woman who held the reigns’ is no stranger to blue flame, for her flame burns blue in lowest oxygen, a stranger legacy I couldn’t say.
This alchemist knew when you thought she was easily malleable, but forever the adventurer and scientist, was fool…enough to weight and sea bluest flame or blackest soot.
In the end she went down in flames, but she burned with truest heme, she hopes your amber seal burns true too.
But one thing is for certain, she is a friend and really keen, she’s not just phosphorescent blue but a tripatriot thrice heme.
by Mary Margaret Park
measuring amber hours
this shapely beauty
with bosom poised
above the endless deep
while seconds spill
into her slippers
she’s laughing at the dawn
for mortal man
she has no sorrow
yet endless are her tears
her waist dwindles
measuring hours end
a blue streak intersecting
between friends... and lovers
a whispered echo
In the Tulip of his Arms
the World Opens
The Horizon a Mere Illusion
Are the storms
And the Calm of its Passing...
and the Eye of Spring