Pillars of sleep.
Loneliness is so serene, no-one can ask where you have been,
no footprints by you in the sand, no words that you misunderstand,
no breeze to blow the mists away, no golden dawn or brand new day,
just breathing in the depths of night, when even dreams hide from your sight
until you clamber from the hours, between your heart beats and the showers
that never cleanse the way they should, with Holy flesh and Holy blood,
the sanctified secreted shade that covers the mistakes you made
when voices reached like sun curled smoke, instead they made another yoke.
Silence is like second sight,a nothingness so deathly white,
such sanctified serenity that sleeps within the depths of me,
like mirrors on a sunlit lake that cloud the images they make
cloud wrapped transgressions of a time when poetry meant more than rhyme
upon the sun peeled orange air, they never speak, although they stare
like basilisks on drifting dreams, to kill them off, or so it seems
for after all is said and done, their silence is a setting sun
that drifts down to the deepest light, into it’s pale diluted night.
Patience is a practiced art that often plays a wondrous part
for those who wait before the dawn, to catch the sun and be reborn
into a world where silence prays for newborn hours and quiet days,
their eyes hold memories of before, when dreams danced on a silent shore
and wave whispers had gone to sleep, to catch the dreams they need to keep
until they greet the lonely light that signifies the death of night
and wash again upon the shore, to share the mirrors of before
which sparkle in the coming sun , that grows as it is being spun...
