with heavy hearted space,
enough to bestow an empty Cathedral-
the prodigal child has knelt unto the sun.
she has legacy, pride.
proud strong days never eclipsed by anything more
than that of an oak tree sharing its light,
under an heirloom canopy.

it is not enough to regale.
its minimal inflection is no more than an idealised skeleton.
yet the spark of it, uncompounded,
is enough to light a fire, moving through meat hooks
and repressed vivication,
wings subvert life force through mere validity alone.
there are no such things as dreams or things of dreams.

the velvet underlay is spread thick with thorny sentience
but only bleeds once.