You sit in the corner to avoid
Your own radiance in the sun;
Light fails to miss you
While you stay motionless.
Your eyes swimming, searching,
Fearing that you might wait until cold dusk
For a man who hasn't come home
To you heart.
Where are you?, you ask,
But do you know he's asking the same?
How long, you ask again,
Till you stop dreaming
And wake to a smile
As bright as the reflected sun?
You've been suspected an illusion,
A mirrored silhouette
Of his young-aged yearnings.
And your own yearnings—
Who is to notice them?
It can't be him—not this day—
For he is still dying to call out a name...
A name that will be beside his own
One day in this glassed fortress.
I have no advice nor comfort for this
Your hardest hour,
Save to only bear it
Until a river comes forth from your core
And engulfs his parched land.
You will see him rising from the graves
Of his many a dark death,
Clutching the air with bone-tired arms
That turn thunderous;
And his feet, lean though they are,
Will charge, with full sagacity, to where you are.
True, he is not here now,
But this glass house is consecrating your tears
For the day he walks in through the front door...
Will he see the same you?
Time to sleep now,
The deep, bright secret sprouting in your heart
Let not the angels see,
For it is even more sacred than they!
Labels: poems and poetry