The Scowl of the Blotted

It can't be helped that the smile recoiled from repair.  
   
Her eyes wandered the valley.  
   
Our snow ran through the furnace  
and I dropped off the mountain into the sky.  
   
But I couldn't smile  
notwithstanding the liberty from the unshackled dream she removed me from,  
Though perching doesn't befit these feathery jewels,  
I don't exist if not observed  
by her capture.  
   
This is the quantum fate of all that hopelessly adore the field of theories  
blooming nectar from the seed of thought off the breast's passions  
until the lips that call are the voices of the days of the advent etched along the waning orange juice soaked by the clouds.  
   
In my independence,  
I miss England.  
I miss the queen
and fluttering in her chest-cage  
in the echo of the contracting walls  
as to resolve
that this girl was my home.