The Skylark

I have spent seasons readying for rebirth,

awaiting change forever

in my heart like a bird,

warding off destructive tendencies

and demons, vultures, flies,

with the great, blazing torch of disillusionment,

struggling to stay afloat amid the brine of the gods,

the saturation so bold I cannot taste,

the God so fluid and flooding I cannot know

whatever else exists

alone and apart, and

inseparably a part of us,

but novelty? alas,

Skies are so familiar

that we forget what shade of blue

is shared by our frosting hearts

whose snow-caked wings deserve

to be thawed by the Sea,

to rejoice, to be freed and unleashed

into the delicate

Storm of the Sky

whose shores are allegiance and freedom,

and furious Joy,

the Skylark, emptied of pain,

the emerging fires of the flood,

the redundance, the particulars

of liberty of mind,

the impenetrable Joy

of a thing, a thousand times.

10/21/2016

West Vancouver

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada