On Balance Poem by Mark Heathcote

On balance, both nostrils flare when angered
like a bull seeing red—charging anchored.
It's a grand spectacle watching gold dust-rise.
Seeing one progressive tear-in-her eyes,
widow screened horrors yet to terrorize
spill out like the first of a thousand flies.
Such is a crisis of heart when our wings-
is torn out like leafy green velvet twigs.
Snapped like a flower stem in the twilight;
dying poppies shadows me, quite finite…