scarce the angels heed

 

 

 

Title art from Scott Derrickson’s “Paradise Lost”. Closing art by Gustave Doré.

 

 

 

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Mike Oldfield “Moonlight Shadow”

 

 

 

 

 

son of dawn
through art forsworn
shedding tears that none could scorn
of the manor bled and born
mourned by slaughtered lambs unshorn
once forlorn
amidst gray morn
wore the mist as twisted shawl
drifted far from whispers cruel
left them floored in listless sprawl

 

son of dawn
through art reborn
treading boards of dulcet chord
walking through the fortress halls
of crimson doors and rose red walls
thoughtful as to deadened cause
of all who pause to reckon falls
not a one thing untoward
unchanging like the sword he sheathed
abhorred for his beliefs
utmost reward for life, in brief

 

son of dawn
of grace adorned
with bit betwixt his teeth
humble worn of victory
the same upon defeat
deep within elysion
no reason to retreat
for this proposed the only way beknownst
to free the queen

 

monochrome the honoured tone of cobblestone rived streets
son of dawn
through art forsworn
bid varied shade release
bled the trail to cherry lane
led merry chase indeed
for this equated only way
to savour painless bleed
heralded of famous breed
leveled toward heinous deed
wide awake remained asleep
in order to proceed, in brief
to kiss blind eyes and make them see
the error in their vacancy
there is a better way, you see
to breathe some way less hatefully

 

son of dawn
through art adorned the canvas through reliant swarm
compliant to a timeless cause
defiant midst the shadowed fall
of all the fibrous scars beneath the shawl in silent call
of all the dying stars that could enhance if only caught
to sleep, perchance to dream
the son of dawn led waltz composed no dramatique
through art proposed the strength to bones in compromise and weak
deep within elysion
no reason to defeat
if only to kiss blind eyes
make them see
the better way before it makes its getaway
tomorrows named as yesterdays
to see relation decimate decree
there was no mystique to his technique
as he proceeded
checkmate was mere masquerade
charade to free the queen
if only she had seen
her blade paraded remained clean
unchanging like the sword he chose to sheathe
then she would have known famed embrace
and claimed the face to breathe
son of dawn
of faith adorned
led gracious chase indeed
while heavens bid commiserate
for scarce the angels heed

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

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© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™ Shadow Spark Publishing™

 

 

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