Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Outside the prismatic spire,

our domain of dreams,

unconstrained, settles,

freedom, sifted in fragments

through the brume resounds,

a dolorous note

earth-bound,

your perdition is one of night and shadow,

the morning’s flame, having spent itself  

before our time,

nourishes the soil

you,

as Alice to her rabbit,

into a warren, out of sight,

know with certainty it’s not you

who is mad, for it was the world, first,

which lost its way

the world, pliable,

shapes itself according to your will,

our ignominious representation,

once anchored, changes form,

a butterfly, beneath the streetlights,

upon the page