I
live it kindly, staring for facts, feeling nonplus. I’m a
young
fantast, deeply mystified, a mystic phantom.
You
wipe a tear, to stir a flame, heavy on a keyboard. I
hear
you wail, floored in prayer, gripping a marbled
cross.
There’s voltage, a freshet of rivers, a gallery of
Christ.
We’re there, a Rembrandt fever, musing
perspective.
Such texture. I’m few for words,
a
stream
of warmth, to feel for rapture. Such gesture.
Is
it; was it; a teapot of glass? I turn, to face a mirror,
where
all is pictureless; but ever for nectar, a tender
sigh,
gently veiled. You wipe a tear, a Wind to fall,
flooded
with daydreams. We live for grain, a conclave
chamber,
stirring spirits. It’s faith to speak, to search a
kernel,
flung into daylight. I hear for joy, a touch of fey,
to
swing through day-fall. We color portraits, to picture
perfect,
a bruise filled with paints. It’s ever ours, a hint
of
graves, chasing after love; but light to live, a featured
silence, to twinkle an eyelash.
