“Fly away,” sang the crow to the little lark,
“There is no home for you
Among the broken promises and empty hearts. We drew
the life we never mourned, away with fading dark.
Your wings are fashioned from the cold, mindless lies
of feathers tarred with pitch!”
Those innocent songs she sang with wistful eyes
into silent syndromes to devour and bewitch.
Spoke the lark, “But love is all that pulls my heart,
my holding, guiding light,
seduction through my lookalike art
to bring you home, stars smother self-inflicted night.”
Sleepless lexis hung between them, never more
than sorrows limitation. Vocem dederunt amatoribus*.
Flying in circles until further meetings
gave nothing less than lamented greetings,
between night and day they lay.
Always there, in expunged love, to aimlessly stray.
* The voice of lovers
Poem © Phen Weston 2015