To melt this bond of years

I happen to trace this angel’s lace through realms of the un-logic. Keys open the great gaping mouth, a gate, the chamber to breathing heaven; seething inner-shores of desirous moors: the palace is soft as flowers’ tears and morning rain.

You chain your star, the sparks splatter and drip like shimmering gauze be-sparkled with dew – a spider’s web castle? Perhaps a fortress, a room, a metaphysic landscape  of charred dreams of poets, of saints, of child-sighted minds.

I wonder at the face of thee, the form of solidified cloud,

I deem this splendor a part of me; that unsullied portion immortal proud.

Can I chance to break the bonds of man, the matter-fears brought to woesome tears of chain with links, cold, glistening and twinkle like stars of ice.

My heart must melt this bond of years.

A furnace I must tend. Feed this land the fuel of the brave, space between tree and house move only to the rhythm of Eternal Love.

This bird is of light, its silver, cold (hot) piercing brain fist is sent through the thickening waste.

Time is chaste of anything lost and do we put the memory there?

Is time the curse of the dead living or is it the cure?