A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
Behold the lavender crushed velvet, its shimmer of opaque delight,
Framed by the glare of a sinister nightlight, in tempered rooms.
Among the gloom, such ferocious eyes fix like quicklime to skin.
The one who would be king, a symbol of the slave to state,
Sublimes into forms which give way to clouds of colour in fragrant,
Movements of delicately placed eye catching jewel stones,
And lies. Forthwith, in such traverse enchantment, in which this,
Of no horizon or zenith to the mastery in falsehood spills like flies,
The swarm will blind you of your sight, from outside in,
The one who would be king watched you from within,
From behind a rose. So poised in a feminine apology as a fan,
Yet it commands somehow, a quiver to the cupid bow - he knows.
Carnivorous spirit, cannibalistic and deceiving, the magician of
Illusion relying on the shorestead fallacy of fantasy driving all intent.
Without relent or repent the empty one moves onward like the,
Frills of his shirt which cup his wrists like a bandage of doilies.
The stomach spoils, for the dust that cakes within he that forms nothing,
Yet gives it a gravity, a power and trust, the inner workings of spirit
Fade. Like some deadly viper nesting in the summer shade,
Sensuality is life, exploration of passion and love in its full,
Providing care for intention and in message of action- truth.
To forfeit such things is murder, a suicide of self, delusion to the inward serving,
Sacrifice of unity for the application of domination in all its subtle forms,
Hollowing and heart wrenching and ultimately destroying until nothing of your
Divine likeness remains. And by the Grace of God the world spins forward,
Leaving you floundering in the backspray of the wave of passing time.
Rowan Blair Colver