This is my temple.
I write on the wall every word you sing to me,
A hymn in violets and reds, drifting over stone –
A consecrated place.
The serpent rises in my Soul like an omen, a virtue,
A fragrant hiss, a beast undulating in pain and unsatisfied desire.
Sing to me again, those bestial, celestial movements pushing me
Into my solitude, into the dark isolation where I am home,
Home within my temple,
This is where I belong.
The light squirms through each tiny crack in my wall,
Illuminating the colors where I have carved and bled my way to solidarity,
Where the words – the hymn – take on the weight of all that has gone before
And all that will come again,
When I will slither my way through the darkness, my tightly coiled essence
Unfolding through you, showing my length and breadth, how far I reach
Down, oh, so deep down,
No longer submerged within but weaving my way up into the light
Where you can no longer deny that this temple
Is also yours.
The captivating music of birds and the enchanting beauty of roses have, each in their own right, inspired people around the world for as long as anyone can remember. How the two combine with the challenges faced by a struggling writer in Georgia to c
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