I.
As a child, I knew how to soar within dreams,
arms aloft to catch the filtered rays of the sun
as I ascended past the reach of shadows
that lay crumpled far below.
I grew older, forgetting the freedom
I once knew so well, submerged in darkness,
remembering solace found within light.
There are those within my churning circle
who pluck feathers from their own silvered wings
to fashion a pair for me, so that I might fly once more.
As I looked into their glistened eyes,
I remembered the defeat of gravity, the thermals which lift me
into skies well above the cautious horizon.
The rustled leaves of your voice whispered,
their timbre trembling in my ear.
II.
Demagogues deny this clarity, these passions so pure,
as though they were merely vagaries of soul,
dormant, intractable as truth.
Tumultuous tides ascend, a crescendo of shimmers
far too supple to suppose as ponderous alchemy.
Inebriated within your febrile eyes,
I am become primal - lithe under your thrum,
a provocative pulse descends along my throat,
an umbrage of flesh made less than fragile.
I succumb to these catacombs of chaotic flames,
this succor of infinite curls beyond ferocity.
III.
Branches may bow under tempest's wrath;
their grief awaits sophisticated sunlight
to rise once more.
Bronze trophy winner
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