I sometimes wake before dawn,
pacing the tiled, cold floors with a
slow, silent step, searching for the
piece, the object to settle me back
into dark sleep, into the dream.
Thoughts: they are the persons
that speak and watch as I pull
back the veil, peering meekly
beyond the tattered strands of
hearts, sinews of faces long left silent.
When the reflection is shown in the
holed out concrete, I can see only
myself with a figure made ever clearer;
the blight that clings to my bones
dies and withers in the light.
Here comes the blue, the red,
the gold mingling in a bruised sky.
He must be here in me.
I’ve never been better, never
been happier to know
that there is something more
promising than I’ve ever known.
Come here, whispering moth:
let me tell you the good news.