The Sound of Color

  The sound of color
    dwells within the hearts
              of fallen angels

    a rainbow dances,
            a miracle song . . . along the lines of
                       cracked glass

    on a still and quiet night
       you hear the rustle
         of wings as
     once again they try
             to fly
      and fail . . .

     We are the sound
         of silence,
    the song of quiescence
           that sheds
    its essence along the breezes,
a whisper of a word . . . defined by dreams
and moved by clouds . . . 

    You are perfection,
freshly winged on Parnassian cliffs
                   and
                                 I am the forgiven,
    swimming through tides
           of feathers,
                        . . . crushed . . .

and crashed on hidden ragged boulders .  .
beneath a sea of vision
               and endless waters . . .

    releasing a salty incense,
                 and myriad travails
           raveling from distant memories,
                   deep corners of what could be . . .
   dark thoughts of misplaced treasure . . .
             a trail rims a sky reaching mountain
                        in the amber dusk. . .
    delicate as a moment,
                the flux of geese
    drifting south . . .

           and winter comes swiftly  
with fresh new sheets . . . 
                    clean, yet, 
of any wayward splash of ink . . . 

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