Icon

and golden is the glow
of a new morning
heralded in poetic song
so fresh and crisp to break

how many eyes do see
what is real before them
caught and falling freely
having looked up to the skies

a fleshen icon
tempered in hot sweat
carried on the shoulders
of his loyal sea of subjects

drifting through the silver
breathing liquid precognition
washed in adulation
clean of sin or glory

born from a mother's grave
wishing for a different play at life
to break the perfect vision of a son
"Will you let me go?"

oh God, have mercy
the murder of a common man
now free and fresh unleashed
"No, we will not let you go!"

lament the collateral death
no more pain is left to bear
lying dull and softly in his arms
"Let me go!"

from the purest light
so full of strength
luminous and live
falls now the shadow

dark as the figure cast
no surrender, just a fool
to a trumpet's crying choir
bestowed the icon's gift

guided down the worn stairs
led by his chosen hand
gone
in silence