He drew, too few, that daring youth.
Who, and why, does the arrow fly?
The makers mark, perched just too high.
A piece of you, a piece of me,
A drop of starlight with which to see.
And a faded memory strung, tied, with truth.
He wondered around that merry glade.
“I once was lost, and now am found.”
That recollection stains the ground.
A painter’s arc to somewhere near.
A peacock sheds loosed feathers and tears.
How high to climb, yet fall and fade.
Be humbled by the thrice crowned sky.
A pearl of white, a glimmer of gold.
A necklace of radiance for all to behold.
Worry not, nor fright and Fear.
That Phoebus light is drawning near.
By guiding hand, and watchful eye.
That Phoebus light, perched just too high.
Chris Black Writes 