From you,the wings of a seraphim grow.Like the blue.Like infinity.You tore the currents fromthe shore,you belted the sky against its flesh andheld back the threat of rain.But there was a recent time when youfell through the thick of cloudsand fell some more,the heart pattered out,the bone slipped into death,and the truth peeled away at the skin.A limpid metaphor.Your tendons were led, strung up likeskulls on pikes.Your tears, clear droplets mingled withplump pity wereflicked beneath the burning sighs.While breaths wrung out to be strangled bythe claws of mud-coated ground.But, the patient one, with hearty bale of madnessyou had carried on.Stripping apathy of its sorcery.Leaving it eyeless and dull.Then you stirred when tomorrow archedacross yesterday,where the hallowed calmdarkened over water-lights of today.Pleasures and pain. Glory and shame.And skyward to light you soared,on extended wings.