Hearts

I am the tenant of my heart.
The hallways are marble covered in silk.
To traverse on it is like walking through
the way of the merchants –
the silk road –
the path between worlds.
The walls of this house are memories
of time past.
The trades made; the bargains reached
and failed.
Of bandits and thieves; of brothers and alliances –
they all have their stories to tell.

Then a staircase of crystal
supported only by the air around it.
It winds long and high;
at the end of it, a plain white door
with a golden knob.
Behind it is a room of walls of darkness.
Only a spotlight shines in the middle of it.
My chair is within that spotlight;
it is the chair upon which my being is seated,
where I wait patiently – have and still –
for another heart – yours –

To fill this place with wondrous colors
and lovely flowers, beautiful scents,
and a heavenly garden where all my
sorrows and loneliness become
a stranger in my mind –
a stranger whom I will show this
newly built place, walking through the same
hallway, up the stairs, through
the door of a golden knob, and say:

“This is my love.”

Is and Will

In presence I plight;
In absence I fright.
Of what am I truly afraid?
That my love will be dismayed?

Am I part of your plans?
Or to fire a fan?
Am I really Love Personified?
Or just an image in your mind?

I don’t know what I want,
Much less what you’ll grant.
I can only give what I can
In as much as you to your man

When love is paradise lost
Will it then be worth all the cost?
The blood, sweats, and tears…
I wonder what will become our years.

Parched I Am

Dark skies lit by moonlight gay,
Clouds of thought astray, away.
Down below – of earth, sand and sea –
Looking; on a patch of grass lay me.

Peculiar is this patch of grass –
Oasis in an area of sand so mass.
Yet this haven will be sundried-hay
By a star shouting out the lights of day.

Likewise this man alone he remains.
From storms only battle scars he obtains.
Braving the mockery of seasons harsh;
Broken – dead asleep in this little parch.

For a flower all he sacrifices:
His sole joy against weed’s grimaces;
Removes he – his soul berates:
Upon this parch a kingdom shall he create.

Solitary Confinement

Leonard Gasparini's. A fine piece in light of this little space.

His prison cell is his naked self.
He is immured in the mirrored space
Between time and eternity.
In his cell
Everything is the center of everything else.
His navel is the universe.
He does not serve time;
Time serves him.

The turnkey cannot enter his kingdom.