Unknown as leaves amid spring summer breeze
Or trivial as stones in the destiny of brooks,
I flit by her presence and vainly now hope
For sprinklings of green amid brown grey or rust
That kindle my embers of hope.
Her lips now are made my rosaries of faith
Her face my icon of anchorage in storm.
So I conjure my lines from glances unseen
And weave a whole yarn from words she won't speak
That gather my sighs unaddressed.
Only in hours both idle and worn,
I indulge in dreams full of rebirth or more
And script a new fantasy of time-travel lore
That moves our orbits up close.
Once these are gone, I plod back on earth
And stagger as a discarded can in its groan.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
In Search of the Reader
Here among causeways of irony and hope,
I shoulder my robes full of autumn and its leaves
And harbour all reeds within time's storied urns
That breathe a few whispers of texts that are lost,
Now in our quarries of fate.
Tethered to their bones by memories now tossed,
I wonder and droop with chisel still in hand
And carve all my songs now on stone.
Etched with my veins that flower now on walls,
I wait for the gaze of one who would hear
Symphony of waves through these stones.
I shoulder my robes full of autumn and its leaves
And harbour all reeds within time's storied urns
That breathe a few whispers of texts that are lost,
Now in our quarries of fate.
Tethered to their bones by memories now tossed,
I wonder and droop with chisel still in hand
And carve all my songs now on stone.
Etched with my veins that flower now on walls,
I wait for the gaze of one who would hear
Symphony of waves through these stones.
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