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Most days I sit in a dark room where heavy curtains prevent

even the slighest bit of light from brightening my soul,

and I listen to the clicking of his keyboard,

the occasional whisper of a pen, the noise

of a city in a country full of tention and unrest, and

the wailing voices of prayering sorrowing rise

above screaming vendors and blaring horns

to assult my listening ears.

I pause to wonder if God is listening too...

Occasionally I laugh or ask a silly question and he pauses

to scold me as if I were a child.

Sometimes he get up, streaches and yawns and comes

to me smelling of alcohol and sweet cologne.

He apporches me like one would apporch a wild bird

moving carefully until I am within his reach, then quickly

clasping me around the waist and pulling my body to him-

he clutches me tightly as if he is fearful thet I may fly away.

When I cry which is often he pulls out a crumbled

handkerchief to harvest my tears, and I pour them out as if

I were pouring wine into a cup.

He drinks my tears like wine to nourish his art.

He is the masked rider riding a red horse

and speaking in many tongues, the most sweetest and clever

being disguised in the simple poetic rantings of a sweet child.

He is serious, and he is writing the pages of his history

and his deepest secrets are contained between the written

lines of a childish woman.

I am the gentle romantic breeze that plays through his pages,

the velvet green forests, the blue starry skies, the soft

curtains that cover his dark thoughts in gems.

I am the woman playing the crucificed volion behind arrays of

rainbow curtains.

He asorbs my light like a prisim and reflects it back to earth in

rainbows where fools dance on rays of green sunshine and

yellow moonbeams,

the stars in their eyes and in their hair, eyes closed

against the blinding glare of reality which will one day

scorch their souls with white hot heat so that they explode

in atomic burst of orange atoms, bone, flesh, teeth and hair.

And thought the bits and pieces will scatter beneath solar

winds, the children of light will come back together

again atom by atom.

And though I shall be labeled as a troubled soul

drowned in the pools of his eyes-

the essence of my soul shall seep down his cheeks in streams

of golden light and into the bright oceans of humanity

 golden tears will fall

thus to trouble the waters again...