It’s
the fleece of a soul, crying your cries, found and unseen
clearly.
Have I spoken it, with burnished tears, crying your
cries?
We’re often silent, to carry something vocal, kneeling
near
an armoire. Was it us, lost in mysticism, a yogic eye?
Something
was cringing, ever to grow, a part of a dying self.
I
couldn’t quell it—such intimacy—the stature of grains.
Our
fingers, deep in soil, to rescue a citadel. I’m crying cries,
a
neighbor’s omen, fraught with such artifice. It’s dearly a
sword,
to pierce a soul, a young man’s nightmare. I’m
crying
such cries, a woman’s last rose, fraught with introspection.
Give
us likeness, ever to assume, sailing for a purple island.
Suggest
a pearl, to caress a scar, different than myself. I’m
crying
your cries, lost for words, to scrape a surface. Something
lives,
a ghostly picture, captured within a psyche. I’m walking
away,
unable to sing, gripping a portfolio; and so many
memories,
swelling with pride, a gust of a woman’s ego; and
I’m
digging, tangled in thorns, crying your cries.
