Obsidian

       Crisp and bare,
  like a wingless fly on brass-blue rock,
or occult jewels set in
    an ebony Fabergé,
    tinted in a dull
    supernova.
The plangent poise of
  sable-folded wings in glazed gunpowder;
a breath of fire;
          the paradox of an
                  opaque sun.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741