The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Scorched

How easily the tendrils awaken
among the char and ashes of
some days, when a passing word
becomes the silver iodide to
the picnic whimsies of my 
free-range pecking and I 
featherless forget to fly

Did I careen down the clouds after 
kissing Phaethon while he reigned
thudding among the rocks 
my seed should wash away 
yet golems cease not sprouting
fourfold as I lay broken and
pine for my beloved Catharsis.
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