It Is Eye

There are, however, those blessed moments
of stillness in which all things stop breathing
and in whose violent silence it torments
none but itself- its own curse- believing.
In this retreat I rest my wings and lick
my wounds and remember how its horns broke
through my scales as we fell into the sick
chasm it knows all too well (like a stroke
of its callous tail) but scares me to Death
Every Time. The deeper we fall the more
I see that the light is here in this breath
in this our fire of forsaken lore.
The clanging of our claws it seems to be,
but no, it is the quiet that kills me.

by Julian Waits

Comments (3)

Anne Bronte spoke for the heart of a war-weary world. Every word well chosen, every verse intelligent, and grace and beauty crowns it all.
A beautiful poem on peace.
Anne u nailed this poem.