• Tricia D. Wagner

Nights on Spice Island #1.20

Updated: Sep 12

I tried my hand at dry wine,

but it hurried me to bed.

A drop of scotch upon my lips

encased my bones in led.

I swooned before the steeple's chime

and knelt before the window stained;

I shuddered at the altar's stair,

but found no melody unchained.

So nothing brewed nor cobbled

wakes the light that I see -

flickering, alive, like wings,

soaring o'er a beating sea.

It's in the berry summer moon

and in stars bluing in the bleak.

It's ferried on the river's waves

and on the apple of your cheek.

The lift, the flight -

pursued, it fails.

But in the gold of racing dawn

I feel its cold hand lift my chin.

My fear of life, of death is gone.

I've found a pathway, deeper in.

© 2015 by Tricia D. Wagner. Proudly created with Wix.com

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