The hue of my second sunrise
is brown
like the coffee I try to drown
the last of night's
half-remembered dreams in,
or the rich soil I plant
the seeds of my
half-baked schemes in.
Like the darkest amber my
gadfly wings could
be trapped in?
No! Like the softest fur
my trembling soul
could be wrapped in.
If I could only start all my days
in the warm glowing dawn
of his gentle brown gaze.
I have been stealing looks at you
but you have stolen my breath
every time--
let's call it even.
Flashes of your radience burn
bright against my shadows
leaving images
so real they stay with me
even in your absence.
I feel you on my shoulder like a bird;
your absence takes up space
with me.
It nearly speaks.
But all I hear is something
like a distant song,
and feel longing.
The key to my heart was lost--
so much had happened before.
It once was left in the door.
It once was kicked onto the floor.
It sat there for days;
no one bothered to pick it up.
it was jammed one time
the wrong way
and twisted.
The last few times
the key seemed bent,
and my heart resisted.
At long last I went
and changed the lock.
It might be a nasty shock--
but next time--
I have learned,
the right to hold this key
will be earned.
Was his blood even cool
before you dipped in one accusing finger
to paint his character
assassin-red?
And did his self-sacrifice
say nothing to you
of anyone else
that ever bled?
You find the cross
convenient to wear
but watch a fallen man
saying it is
not yours to bear.
You have found your feet
to stand for a lie--
it is the same as
condemning a man to die,
not once,
but twice.
frozen in death,
destroyed by ice.
You carry nails in your pockets
seeking candidates for Calvary
and wash your hands so publicly.
Anathema.
Anathema.
You never-whitened sepulchers,
let the blood stain you
forever.
She told her secret to anything
that would never breathe word
to a soul, because the truth pushed
from her ribs, flooded her throat,
coated her tongue--
but could not be heard
for all the world.
It was only true.
She told the moon
and it turned its face and buried
her secret for her
in the tide.
She told the sun and it
blushed to hear, and
made fog from the
morning dew.
She told the stars that were so far away
it would take them forever to hear--
but somehow, they already knew.
And she found herself
telling the God she didn't believe in,
so she could hold her secret
in prayer, at least,
if she could hold him nowhere else.
Faith exists for truths
like these,
when there is nothing
you can do.
There is a door
I don't want to close.
Nothing will come of it,
I suppose,
but when I find myself
with little to do
I look through it and
admire the view.
And every once in a while
a warm breeze
blows through.
I'm
never knowing just what
I've said
or what you really think;
I'm stuck trying to read
between the lines
written in invisible ink.
I've crossed some boundary,
unaware--
wondering how to get things
square--
or maybe nothing happened at all,
and you don't really care.
