Sunday, August 23, 2009

come (live inside).

Like one blind,
my home is the invisible;
I was born there.
Held, but hardly to feel
the touch, that moment
where I melt into the presence
of another, of love, ever
I melt, but I am held
by the intangible.

Water, parched and drawn
without words by its call,
sun, I shiver in winter:
down, pour it down, light and fire,
know me and hold,
hold me.

I can only hear.
All these long days
since the start, waiting for
that moment—opening up
of a small door, door I can touch
and press my hand against
till it opens,
and a light, dim, golden,
seen, and I,
held—but it’s true,
I have heard.

In my mind I’ll sing that song
around and around,
wait, whisper its words to the night,
and listen to the night
that surrounds,
so close, sing them back
to me.

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