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.
art rat cafe 