wings

Callum Featherstone

Away

I was away.

When I became
a blazing iconoclast
of innocence.

Aside Swan’s azul canal
serenely passing
by.

Shards collated
like cerise husks of
glass feathers.

Falling wholly from Her
eye.

The falling pieces
they scar the surface.

Marring my purpose
along the stretch.

As stalling features
were caught in cursus.

Barred & berthless.

A thronging wretch.

Piercing crimson crunches;

Let me —

down.

Whilst the Swan’s
unfolded wings
steal Her, white, away.

On silver plumaged
gown.

Away from;
my shattered scarlet sting.

Away from;

a jilted rufous thing.

A part of me
it went away that day.

I watched unstayed
whilst I stood & list.

Never to return.

Under Swan’s glassy lee
my pinion virtue fades;

skypaths white, now, lain
ichor chimney mists.

Dishonour’s furnace burns;

away.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A prison of another’s design

Caged birds dream of tasting clouds

and soaring above hasting crowds.

Magnolia walls trap Southern promise

I’ll clip my wings for another’s solace.

Metal struts; horizontal sorrow,

beaming the echo of glottal morose.

The rise and fall of neck and seed;

the emptiness, the peck and plead.

A flighty notion hungers inside;

a prison of another’s design.

Resistance unfed; futility;

no fight, bereft, flightless.

Brain dead, drained, lifeless;

for we bred in captivity.

Callum Featherstone

Sweet Dreams

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are magic in a box high up on a hill overlooking the universe.

A box which is opened every time that you sleep.

Revelations decoded as the lid is lifted.

Sweet dreams.

Memories casting spells from the spirit-world which transport you throughout space and time.

Future presenting past – transversing as one across existence.

Immortality isn’t hard to imagine when you dream rather than think.

Your flesh will turn to dust and travel on the wings of your essence with reverie as captain.

Flying metaphysically.