Sitting Here
Sitting here in this house of ruins,
longing for You.
Open and closed,
lids up, lids down.
Blinking eyes,
a sure sign of life.
Eyes for looking,
eyes for being looked into.
Once glowing,
the shine now shadow, ashes, soot.
Home is where you hang your heart.
This heart burned
to the ground
like witches tied to a pole.
Inside the screaming
is found a perfect silence,
then…the song
that repeats.
Lyrics of revolution,
Rhythm that may
run your ass over!Downbeat!
Downbeat Downbeat
Downbeat
Downbeat
Downbeat
Downbeat!
Time is something I
cannot mention.
We won’t speak of it.
No clock, no calender or metronome.
Only this current, this sky.
I don’t march,
I float along, flowing on…
Can I talk to You
from here
inside this poem?
Even before You have read it?
Or, it must be You, talking
to me now,
as the ink scratches
these straight
crooked, and curved lines.
This never stops…
In silence,
your speaking is formless,
clear.
Music and poetry give it form
without form.
The tangible intangible…
How can this be?
Like this love,
clear.
Three periods at the end of a sentence,
dot dot dot…
Vines climb through
the cracks,
heart~shaped leaves emerge,
grow, bounce and shudder.
Flowers kaleidoscope themselves
about these, those walls,
perfectly patternless.
And beautiful.
In rhythm,
whether moving
or still.
Sitting here in this mansion of paradise
longing for You,
giving thanks for the cracks in the walls
and the image of your face.
awesome write… you know how to cast a spell …blessed be.
Poetry indeed does write you and this world is more enlightened as a result…blessed be.
its nice yaar.
Great works. Keep it up.