Mystery of a new light
captured between
the windows to her room
the cipher of mosaic tiles
the shadow cast over it
has to be explained away
in 17 syllables, and legible font
the more I explain
further from the truth it gets
feigning of a celebrated life
caught between a rock and a hard place
unable to stand on four legs
yet seems, to be soaring
majestic and false, in darkness,
ghosts are bred, until they turn
into winged seraphs –
no wings to call their own,
only the wind.
A heathen poet 