Sticks and stones may break
my bones, but the names I call
myself will **** me.

I have looked upon
the Medusa, unawares
and been turned to stone

It is in my conscious stream to speak of restricted words
the kind, that hang off  your two separate lips quietly
that usually hold hands in that scrutinizing silence
the beauty of these two things my eyes find hard to hold

may you come to me on blazed days, and shivered nights
with the wisdom of owls, and teach me all the things life has taught you
and show me your scars from that faint childhood
and tell me about the beautiful lands you wish to immerse your body into


may I be blessed enough, that you - glorious you
sacrifice your time to simply stare at the immense turquoise of the sea with me
the veins in a leaf, the memories written on tomb stones

I hope to figure out the secret paths of your garden labyrinth  
to find your white beaches and leave but a footprint upon the shore of your inner arms

at night, I find the most joy in asking you to look at the stars
for when met with your eyes, they burn brighter and become shy with your beauty
they scatter and hide behind each other. The moon envies me.
She dances in the sky
gloriously.  

your hair unravels like a bush of silk
harmoniously tasseled out in the sun and when you smile
fruits of labor fall off the corners of your comely mouth
all of natures most passionate things are instilled in you
you are every season of the year
every phase of the moon and rotation of the sun
the rain that I stand under
the waterfall I fall asleep too
the immense darkness of the night that inspires me

your eyes taut, like black diamonds - your tears benitoite
even that from you is something to be admired
I wish to be a leafless tree standing somewhere
in the outskirts of your world

In this Cathedral you are a god,
this outdoor arena beneath a blood red sky.
You stand above a sea of melted faces
with arms outstretched and upturned
as reticent as a rood.
 
When the stage goes dark the beat begins
and you are one of us the wounded and resolute,
you lead us into songs of hope and redemption,
replacing silence with words of truth.

Truth as redolent as barb laden roses,
and just as difficult to hold.
 
A Savior that bled
the moon turning red
the darkness of night
the black of the white
the white gold and pearls
the mysterious twirls
your deepest desires  
the trip through her wires
 
A house not a home
the scars on the stones
your horses in flight
the drums in the night
the **** of a gun  
the glare of the sun
the un-deserved grace
the dust cloud erased
 
You sell what you sing like a preacher in pain

We hold on tightly until we bleed
 
In this Cathedral you are a god

I envy your simple life,
excitement at the prospect of rain and unexpected mail
or the extra hour of sleep you take on Saturdays,
but these small pleasures elude me, instead my mind is tangled in thought
like 7 connected strands of 12 foot Christmas lights packed in a shoebox
while I try to find the faulty bulb that keeps the bunch from lighting.

She felt his hands stroke her heaving flanks
Sensitive fingers brushing the dampness.

She leaned into the hands of this man,
Her friend and master for the moment.

Then she whinnied loudly and galloped,
To strut among the jealous herd.