The Angel Of The North: (An Elegy) . Poem by DM W

Bored of the obtuse mutterings
Of the amorphous crowd;
Tired of the familiar greys & greens
Of her immediate surroundings;
She ventured into twilight realms,
And scanned the potent air,
For rare, inscrutable treasures;
Which she'd weave into arabesques.
Her profound poetry glowed
With a kind of fiery glory.
It fed on obscure symbolism.
And abounded in Grace.

Beauty reclines in molecular structures.


Her art was punctuated
By strata of paradox.
The themes were portentous:
Tenebrous; often funereal.
Yet her style was as mellifluous
As birdsong and as delicate
As a butterfly's wing.
Like a modern Columbine,
Playing many a part
In life's strange pageant,
She simulated surfaces,
In order to communicate,
Her radical philosophies.

Everything profound adores the mask.