Jerome by Anastasia Forfotă - HTML preview

Perhaps the Winged-Fire

The whistle is dreadful,

and the sea is dreadful

and your guise is whittled,

your forgiveness whispered,

from which, lo, a fleet

is risen from concrete -

I've risen it from ash

that I didn't know was here.

They're cajoled to unrepent,

even after soft persistence -

but it doesn't end,

and they never listen.

It lies dormant

until wakened again,

ten times worse

and ten times more scared -

the dragon aflame

or the serpent aset

who puts me to shame

and leaves me no rest.

I wait for its blame

and it never comes,

so perhaps it's the same

that I wait it to pass;

perhaps the fire dies;

perhaps its wings burn up

purged in their own light;

perhaps the bird outcries

its melody at last;

perhaps I make it die;

perhaps I'm mortified -

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.