Posted on by Max Meunier

for Venus

her words give birth
to songbirds
arranged in strange striations

and when they call
all the heavens
start to fall as wintry feathers

into the mercy
of an erstwhile whisper

from pursed lips
pricked with petaline pigments

immersed
in otherworldly waves
she bathes the light
triumphant

without her semblance
all is but for naught

to doubt her tenor
fate should heed to falter not

for it is she alone
who shall usher in the dawn
auspicious

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