Mammatus

The distant lands are liquid
A living lament of memory.
I'm half starved for release
From the rattle of a locust wind.

These skies break my heart.
Their ghosts glow; angel eggs
Bloom violet through
The dun pelt of Heaven.

The weight of an alien aesthetic
Drifts down to me -
Beckons a last ascendancy.
Perhaps only they are privy

To this emphatic need. When,
To claim Pileus for a crown
We are raised like Icarus,
Borne beyond the anvils

Just to see how the sun
Has fired our imperfect longing.
Is it enough?
This misplacement of faith?

To feel yourself unveiled,
Damaged goods before a godless bluff,
A half baked animist
In the evening's arc.

Is it enough?