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
He asorbs my light like a prisim and reflects it back to earth in
rainbows where fools dance on rays of green sunshine and
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...