Do not Despair . . .

           I question my reflection
           as the balloon of many colors
           lifts up into the ozone . . .
          There is a silent melody of the heart,
          where, nudged by warm exhalations
          of angels,
          all the people glide by
          on wings of gossamer,
          wistful dreams drift over their heads . . .
          some to slip away forever,
          and little tears of crystal emptiness
          evaporate into a heartless desert . . .

                    There is no answer to your endless question
                    There is no hope beyond the moment
                    There is no dream beneath the whispering winds

          There is no love but that defined
          by gods who carry all the pain . . .

          You stand sentry
          Oh raven,
          ebony upon my winter's breast,
          your inner light,
          an array of un-shed colors . . .
          dancing sun-like on closely knitted feathers,
          golden as the summer storms
          that cloud your visionary orbs
          where flocks of birds seethe
          across sighing skies;
          and a deep heartbeat throbs, somewhere,
          pulsating with an undefined empathy,
          reflected in the eyes of the mirror.