night sky
invades the land
as if a van gogh painting
the king,
the torn father
.in his best clothing,
in his worst face
in his hay stack
berd nest
beard
as if being prepared,
as if being doomed to a funiral.
as if barying his golden locked daughter
one more time every year,
on the date of her birth,
he releases the magnificently
florescent
lantern.
the first.
a first touch of gentle light
a gentle guide
a gentle plea
into the roaming terrors of an infinite
night sky
and then a thousand more.
the hollow wombed mother,
the queen
grabs hold of her husbands shoulders
and figidly whispers to him,
she will be back to us,
these lanterns have flown the day she was born,
will fly when she returns
and rest. the day she dies.
like this lantern,
our stranded, radiant
golden haired daughter.
