The High Flying Swift

Over hills of flesh and putrid hope.
Over draped skin.
Over clay of hills,
and nothing,
on this nothing day.

Over.
Over, high,
flies a single swift
with loving cry,
of freedom.

A mournful scream, of anguish-love, escape-hope,
seeking Bosche's dream
over a flesh paradise seen
through a tinted lens
as green.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.