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09 October 2008 @ 05:07 am
The Voice of Waiting  
She is a secret age
When days go by between the sunrise
And midnight cries.
She lives in cotton and paper
Written in hands living and dead,
Flirting with tomorrows, watchers, moments.
Somewhere soars a heart on wings of stained lace,
But she knows him only by the brush of wind that holds him.
Together is a prophesy she read on a leather-bound page;
Still, she looks up to the top shelves of her neighborhood book store,
Hoping at least to recall the author's name.
She would sing the color of autumn leaves, but soft
The sound of his shadow's passing makes her tremble again.
Waiting is not in the clouds with her sun-dazzled becoming;
Up there swing and spring only the self, the now, the here.
Waiting sleeps on her shoulder at night and crawls onto her breast in the morning.
Awake, it whispers, but not loudly enough.

And hollow thoughts come with the traffic,
And glaring, shiny nights pass under streetlight skies,
And all the dreams of her lunch break drowsing
Are drowned out by are you okay and conflicts
In the name of time clock friendship.
She is a shrinking, outside the world of vacation pictures and randomly filled bookcases;
She is only the growing when a silent sun, brushed aside her pillow by that faraway forgetful heart perched on delicacy,
Warms the place where waiting was, only two long breaths before.
Sometimes the hidden places of her room are larger than nations,
And populated by more yesterdays than faces.
Once she had glimpsed He Rides the Sky, the name of that day as lost as all the others,
She could only see blue through her bedroom window,
She could only dance to the sound of thunder,
She could only touch the night through cotton and paper,
She could only shed tears at the last hour, and
She could only hear the beating of butterfly wings,
Still louder than the voice of waiting.
 
 
Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: Randy Mead - Caravanserai