Unfathomed

 The colours of my canvas

Are flawed in their brilliance;

A tango of flames and happenstance

Splashed with reverent irrelevance

Remnants and regrets;

A crippled sword slices forth

Silhouetted through the fallout

Wrought wholly of blasphemous steel

Making a mockery to my innocence -

Evocative as clay; untouched, un-held.

.

A dream was killed here;

A finality in monochrome orchestra

A mute plea, a silent word

Cracks out and opens this magnificent dawn

To spill forth its secrets

Into the dark waves beneath;

We’ll dive for conches

And listen to the earth die.

.

I’m still wrapped in borrowed halos

Choked by their paraphrase and their legacy;

Caught by the prose of foreign tongues

Demeaned by the gaze of angels.

A sentiment sent sprawling across infinity;

I am nothing more than a platitude to creation,

Unharmed but unknown;

Unheard but unspoken,

Understood, but unfathomed.