dare I
score anew
the fabric of night
in long lost breath,
while fingers of ink
touch a heart
that knows the fresh
silence of death.

dare I...
with open hand,
touch anew
and not open wounds,
when a voice breaks silence
through the light of
equatorial moons.

will the words,
as broken
shards of pain,
reweave a silken web
broken
after the rain.

There was a time when I wanted
so much for myself,
when I could see horizons,
when I could see tomorrow.

Have I slipped off the edge,
where the empty people live
and spend their nights trying
to keep their feet warm...the
dance moving and whirling all
around them but never touching.

Who repairs the sickness that
tears the mind away from itself,
who can open the eyes that midnight
has taken over and calls it's own now.

Is there a place where empty people can go,
and not fall through their own hole?

The mountains are harder to climb now.
The valleys not as green as yesterday.
And yet, still I refuse to die like this,
cold, forgotten within my own dreams...

and no feet left to dance, oh how I want to dance.

Who repairs broken minds,
and retrieves lost dreams.

Who will play a waltz for
the feet that can no longer find their song.
It is so cold inside,
there must be a place

where the empty people can go.

where do we keep the treasures
that by circumstance show golden
within another's eyes, belonging to
another's heart, we sing a song
edged with the silver of desire.

I found these two four-leafed clovers
while walking in the field today, and
folded them carefully between the pages
of our book...knowing that soon I would
stitch them into a satchel...just small enough
to carry the weight of a fairies dream.

how nimble the fingers must be...
to thread the needle that will row a stitch
through the thin walls of this treasure,
and careful the task of filling the space within.
the dream was larger than I imagined....

the heart is always the last
to stop breathing, just before
the rising of the soul, onward
and into another life...unguarded.

we try to define ourselves
by the writing of the heart,
but the touch, missing from words,
leaves so much more to explore.

give me your hand, palm up,
do not close the gates yet.
even touching, the heart
is the last to stop breathing.

place no bounds upon it's breath,
do not rush into the stopping of pulse
for in it's rising, feathers grow slowly,
and leave behind the miracles of birth.

I lay so very still,

captive within the vowels
of your sigh,

passion coursing
through veins like a river
as you lay there,
bare and forgiving...
a response to words I could hardly whisper.

words that had eyes,
and fingers,
words that crawled up your pale, beautiful
skin in search of a place to live,
in search of the unknown depths of heart.

If I could step outside this dream
I could walk the path,
in blindness,
and still find you,

light becoming warmth
and close to touch,
the fevered pitch of voice calling me...

"come, my love,
find me in the clearing at moontide...
and passion,
as love,
will be home here,"