The Doctor's Daughter
Austin Morgan
La luna,
Of elegant pearl,
Veiled by threadlike
Summercloud – humid,
Surrounded by fleeting hue
Of communal festivity aglow,
The streets slick with
The silver glimmer of mid-August rain.
Against the equinox,
Its eventual zenith,
The feathers of her wing
Ruffled as she found me
There upon the courthouse step.
I greeted her with eyes of warmth,
Burning, burning as if to say
Alas, alas!
The pillars of eventide
Shouldered the weight
Of the heavens spread above,
The seraphim fighting
To cease its aimless spilling
Upon those below.
I asked her
“Was it you who dwelt
Behind shutters of azure blue,
Among bronzed Eastern statuettes,
Beside the stairwell of royal oak?”
I pondered not the banality
Of contemporary romance,
Abloom with petals of endless sixteen,
As was she,
Derived from nymph of the sea,
A mystery to me.
And I was pardoned,
I was absolved within her prayer,
Friday faith known to none but she,
Not unlike those surrounding,
Not unlike Zoroaster
Atop the mountain peak.
He spoke of mortality among gods,
Of twilight in the desert’s gleam,
Although upon his cruel descent,
Found all eyes fixated upon
Certain earthly tragedy;
The pitfall of better men.
Beneath many an illuminating bulb,
We spoke of verse
And of kindly chariot music,
Unaware that the tune
Had gradually slowed.
So, chimed the church tower bell,
So, chimed the evening bell,
Midnight,
Cusp of nocturne,
That she would eventually part from me.
For she had greater aspirations than I,
She departed to walk the red clay hills
Of distant seaside cities,
Leaving behind mere feathers in her wake,
As I witnessed the demise, petals of faded sixteen.
All that remained being the manuscript of her father’s,
My only isthmus, this manuscript of her father’s.
How I do recall
Her eyes of woven silk,
Her mouth of timely riddle,
Her face of artful sculpture,
Her soul to rest upon the base of Olympus
As the diviner gaze on.
I shall continue this recollection
Within her absence.
I shall rest upon the mount
For to write a sonnet of her naming,
And, perhaps, upon her sweet return
I will have finished, my soul ever-burnt.
Austin Morgan
La luna,
Of elegant pearl,
Veiled by threadlike
Summercloud – humid,
Surrounded by fleeting hue
Of communal festivity aglow,
The streets slick with
The silver glimmer of mid-August rain.
Against the equinox,
Its eventual zenith,
The feathers of her wing
Ruffled as she found me
There upon the courthouse step.
I greeted her with eyes of warmth,
Burning, burning as if to say
Alas, alas!
The pillars of eventide
Shouldered the weight
Of the heavens spread above,
The seraphim fighting
To cease its aimless spilling
Upon those below.
I asked her
“Was it you who dwelt
Behind shutters of azure blue,
Among bronzed Eastern statuettes,
Beside the stairwell of royal oak?”
I pondered not the banality
Of contemporary romance,
Abloom with petals of endless sixteen,
As was she,
Derived from nymph of the sea,
A mystery to me.
And I was pardoned,
I was absolved within her prayer,
Friday faith known to none but she,
Not unlike those surrounding,
Not unlike Zoroaster
Atop the mountain peak.
He spoke of mortality among gods,
Of twilight in the desert’s gleam,
Although upon his cruel descent,
Found all eyes fixated upon
Certain earthly tragedy;
The pitfall of better men.
Beneath many an illuminating bulb,
We spoke of verse
And of kindly chariot music,
Unaware that the tune
Had gradually slowed.
So, chimed the church tower bell,
So, chimed the evening bell,
Midnight,
Cusp of nocturne,
That she would eventually part from me.
For she had greater aspirations than I,
She departed to walk the red clay hills
Of distant seaside cities,
Leaving behind mere feathers in her wake,
As I witnessed the demise, petals of faded sixteen.
All that remained being the manuscript of her father’s,
My only isthmus, this manuscript of her father’s.
How I do recall
Her eyes of woven silk,
Her mouth of timely riddle,
Her face of artful sculpture,
Her soul to rest upon the base of Olympus
As the diviner gaze on.
I shall continue this recollection
Within her absence.
I shall rest upon the mount
For to write a sonnet of her naming,
And, perhaps, upon her sweet return
I will have finished, my soul ever-burnt.
