Feathers from an angle

Turning, thread sowing strings
The puppet, to the child brings
turning into, a misguided kite
floating into my midnight
no sparks, no light.



Feathers of angles
across a lightless ground
brisk and floating
envy of green's eye
bloody as knives
in the bath of dye




Spending time with matches
in a kitchen of glass
in a mass of to-tall-grass
looking through old times
the sting reminds me
the light re-insights me
spread these smog-halo's
across the land, in the gallows.



Feathers of angles
In fresh spring time
who walks this land
with no shelter
who steps in the fire
that shall melt'er.


Give me your final go
spread this infinite glow
let me have this even flow
bask in the waters of fountains
from the mist off the mountains
oh skinny one of the rivers
oh freezing one of the shivers
hast these ailments alluded to thee?
How does these fields turn so black?
Who composed the final hymn
Who knew the weeds and twigs so grim.