Doors opened in light.
Light arrowed
to winged promises
of flight.
Floating.
Falling.
Rising.
By this illusion of paint
and light
beacons are ignited.
Old desires,
not yet too rained upon
to catch a spark,
burn, fierce flaming
for my remembered
fallen angel.
They are not all
as they appear to be,
the angelic ones.
Some wear paper wings
easily dissolved by tears and time
or ashed by fires of passion.
Some wear cardboard halos,
pinned carelessly to fragrant hair,
creased and crushed by kisses.
She was not at all
as she appeared to be,
my angel.
Her moonlit votive
melted in the sun
blistering the heart
with burning tongues of wax.
Her skin absolved mine
with scents of white lilies.
Her fingertips traced
ecstatic ascensions to heaven.
Her miraculous eyes,
a mirage of turquoise lakes
in an empty desert,
blinded all seeing
like god at high noon.
Photo and poem by clinock.
This image is a special beauty, the light entering that room, the angels… And I love the poem. The scent of white lilies… You created another masterpiece! 🙂
LikeLike
Thank you dear Ina, not sure about ‘masterpiece’ but have spoken my heart…
LikeLike
Studies in Darkness and Light, both necessary and both a part of us. Some beautiful art John.
LikeLike
Thank you Gary, yes, we are both, encounter both and accept, in love, as much as we can of the the yin and the yang, what else can we do?
LikeLike
Your words in this beautiful poem, John, are phosphorescent trails….
LikeLike
Wow Jana, that’s really lovely, thank you…
LikeLike
Just as dark can obscure vision light can distort it……play tricks with it. Your photo and poem both do this so very well John…….
LikeLike
Thank you Robert, I hear you well my friend…
LikeLike
A cardboard halo and a burning tongue of wax… beautiful…
LikeLike
Thank you Steven…
LikeLike
Hi John, this is really beautiful.
LikeLike
Thank you Cheryl, I am very happy you liked this post…
LikeLike