Setaside's Poetry.... if you like...

Originally posted by setaside2
The King of All Flights Fancy


do not curtsy nor bow before the king,
there is no necessity.
A payment of respect requires merely the nod of recognition from across the room,
a wayward wink that carries with it the secrets of all the world,
the voices that whisper in the wake of those who travel past,
the election of supremacy more an invite to the ballroom,
the glory a ghost of seasons gone,
the youth and effervescence a mocking gift to lay at the feet of those who worship you...

Did you fancy that pink bow as she walked by, I thought to myself...

it was garish and crass though the flavor seemed keen in the 2:00 sun,
these shadows ever longer as the autumn descends.
I envision her turning the corner though I have resumed my journey opposite.
Strange how the world allows the wings to carry home so many a persona,
those whispers heard are the bees taking flight to their latest hive.
Must the cave shadow so dark as the moon fades behind the regional lake and dancing district?
Why must the sonic wave of evening sonar turned wrecking ball devour me so?
those sand castles at your knee our microcosm,
crumbling to dust as they are lapped by the tide,
the useless pride involved in construct misconstrued and proven wrong.

Tiptoe the tide in temerity,
the time a tawny streak of tingle and twine,
you rush to meet the wave, bred crumbs in the wake,
your aftereffects my shockwave north.

I noticed my petals are wilted as though the weight of the salt in this breeze were the world upon the tip of a tongue,
the wait for the world to turn the flick of an eyelash on the air.
Why the metaphor must fail for free and direct speech when the art is lost is a killing thing.

The king pads his plush and faded carpet so torn and threadbare with the years of worry for his sins.
His bare feet feel the comfort of the necessary and familiar weave, such patterns that are woven underfoot in a day the way of the wind.
The paraffin drips as the water-core candles are blown out,
the late evening presumed to be enough to say farewell and good night to all.
His footsteps fade into the black echoing a presence far gone beyond the one who shuffles by.
The heads that turn and those comments that follow so sly...

bring the fluttering mariposa a rose,
she is tired and willing and may yet breach a stroke of faith so far stretched,
the flight attained a trembling and hesitant affirmation,
the unanswered question of landing another statistic to gain.
Dare us all to go it together, be it alone,
the holes in the carpet shall only grow deeper,
gathering all that is stone nearer and nearer to the surface.

Watch that patch of cold, his majesty considers it most grievous and begs your forgiveness as his house is not as well kept as it once was, his castle no longer the mastering fortress it used to be.
Strange how he steps onto the sand looking back at the open cottage behind and all that comes to mind is a pink bow, crass and garish in the early afternoon...

the autumn may bring peace come the late monsoons as the waves pound the microcosm into oblivion.
How cruel the flood.
How cleansing.
The taste of salt never so bittersweet.

The cry of seagulls settles a soul so covered in grit and thread bare, the winged creatures padding down the beach in troves. No one notices a flash of pink on the returning tide; a silent wish of good fortune and the setting sun...

The angel has arrived.