New Work


Goodnight sweet prince,

you served us well;

though the detail of your travails 

was less than the sum of your return.

I oft will wonder on your steady gate,

the easy fall of sadness

as you peel away your gaze 

from my fallen archangel.

If bliss were a virtue

then as pure as the snow be I;

my mind set for southern winds

along this meteorological test. 

Look, I venture,

pointing east

and heads they turn,

expectant, hopeful.

I will sleep now,

my day run,

a race so true

that I bear will believe my own Mother!

And you, bright star,

will’st thou come back tomorrow?

Fair wind rest thee well

in Mother Nature’s pure embrace. 
A X 

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