Wednesday, January 2, 2008


Poetry is
This Rock.
Your sacred Space.
Suspended between
Heaven and Earth.
Above, the sky
A black blanket
Patterned with stars;
Below, an inky darkness
And village lights twinkling
In the horizon.
Music is
The low resonance
Of your voice
Blending perfectly
With the quiet night.
Words are beautiful
When they come together
The way they do
On your lips
And a voice
Can drown one’s senses.
Peace is
Knowing I matter
Enough to be shown
This haven.
An unworthy devotee, perhaps,
Yet my breath is taken
Captive, by the sheer majesty
Of the shrine, and You.
Made heady by moonlight,
I spin round and round:
I think I catch a falling star.
Awe is
Lying on this flat bed,
Feasting on the vista
And the magnificence of Night.
I realize this is a piece of Heaven
A rare taste of things unseen.
And then I shatter the peace.
My query is like a pinprick
That disturbs the solitude.
Your eyes become black, blank
Empty pools of disquiet.

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