See-through Sterling Silver Lavender

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The color of the incense, if its wisps

Wished as a single hue, is like a wraith

Of spirit vine, wistaria in lisps,

A specter whispering, or like the faith

Of angels as they turn from Christ to sin,

The flowering of molten silver on

A spellbound vine, as subtle as a djinn

Shapeshifting through the shades of eerie dawn.

The incense smoke, akin to serpent snake,

Is white but mixed with venom so the tone

Moves almost iridescent.  William Blake

Might try to blend it as a fading moan.

  No bloom (yet every bloom) desires to move

    As saints, as one and all rejoice to prove.

© Phillip Whidden