When all my day is worn and thin,
moth-eaten, and with holes,
I will remember gain the taste
of falling to my soul.
I’ll wrap me then in blanket shroud,
of heavy wool and hide,
to hold me true to mourn the loss
of what has been denied.
A message in the morning rings,
a strong wind shakes the night.
These angels speak with urgency
in words they still must write.
Against the bitterness of salt,
the cold of buried bones,
a blade between my ribs would find
my heart an altar stone.
The sacrifice, an offering
of fire, blood and time,
a brief relief, returning to
the gods I thought was mine,
I lead, you follow from the front,
with language of your own,
to find the faith we need to stay
and we are almost gone.
I drifted there, your world seems new,
into the cracks you went,
yet I don’t know quite where you go,
nor yet your tracking scent,
or how you hunt, your secret kill,
that will, in times ahead,
quite surely lead me through to you
when both of us are dead.
Make dahl then for a healing wake,
those broken and the lost,
put lotus leaves upon the flame,
prepare the lamb in trust,
then light the candles of the eve,
play music through a reed,
you run, I chase, our natures bare,
and that contains our need,
that I may hold and walk beside
those limits that you know,
and you return as radiance,
as warm as embers glow.
I mean that alter of your view,
a seeing not by sight,
but rather how the blackest shine
reflects a cats eye light.
Discover me your widest smile,
initiation of my age,
a death of making sense;
for only here could we find love
sufficient to that cure,
and tears and ash fall underground
where stars and pearls endure.