They are free

Hand full of satin fur
Rushing to passive neck line
Lips parted
long enough to whisper
or sigh
immeasurable
display
of august murmur
Beat skipping fingertips
Tapping Lieberstraum
You are perfect
Absent attempt
Resembling Rembrandtian rarity
Blues standing up to red
Nothing need said
My spirit is fed
by creation
Awe stricken palsy
muffled, confused and laid bare
Eyes cannot lie
A beautiful cry
Mortal at best
and proud of it

All rights reserved to James Martin Cox