I was misplaced air
that cradled all around you,
held to cobalt skies
to shelter your fledgling wings,
sweet perdition seems
the only time you’ll hold me,
regrets honest root
that feeds from unadorned hearts,
the crossed and convicted dream.

But, now I am free,
the lord of evermore hopes,
amid kingdoms lit
by azure fires, absolute
in self-remembered fortune.

Poem © Phen Weston 2015


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