T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova
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upon five candle she did lit
as night to moon once more was split,
the howl of one transcends a grace
of ripened song and fire in place,
the wood her soul in scream a storm
to burn to ash in her transform,
his eyes the hooks from which she swings
with threads that form two sets of wings,
in endless flight with just one word
disgraced from grace always preferred,
yet still in dark the five is seen
now waxed like moon though still obscene,
no word, no deed can cause a sway
from kneel and pres-sed hands that pray.
one of 69 sonnets
© t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
www.poetrypoem.com/whispersofpoetry