To be born from the womb of the mother

who has not developed a bond to love

with the child who sits in the darkened room

alone and counting the days blend to night

or call on the God to answer his call

a solemn melancholy denial

of the hurt and lackluster suffering

that broke his soul to reach into the pit...



where he could reveal the brilliant beauty

the face of an angel sent from aether

"hold my hand tight" and let me be loved now

where the swan graces the shimmer of lake

feather dropped onto the brimstone water

secret boundary, eternal longing