The poet´s turmoil No.365 (A tribute to Anne Clark)

When I take flight from the dark in which we live the night,
trying to find a way to navigate my rise towards a stark light,
I escape nightmares and glimpse the glow of a far fire.
And, drawing near, I observe the red white hot building of a pyre.

The elves with apt and dire skill and might create a star.

I have come a long way, now my wings begin to mar
my soaring homewards, and I feel the tendency to cry
as I fall down fast, earthbound. Solid ground refuses to ply
the magic I need to go on without my own neglect.

Tumbling, stumbling, I discern: It continues to affect
the primal feeling of power I once had. I scarred my wing.

Mourning, raging in my turmoil I still want to try and sing.