Among the flowers of my Persian carpet
vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk
and wool. Sliding through warp and weft,
I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and
my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats,
I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness
of a blue silk river runs through my ears.
A blend and blur of color mark the horizon
spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt
undisturbed by my addition to the scene.
Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat,
silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel
through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited
pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung
across their backs, chase a leopard forever
peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never
hits its mark eternally suspended by woven
threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence
as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow.
My arms slide round the leopard's golden
ruff and I am bound by threads of color
to be hunted forever through fields of silk and
wool, chased by frozen horses, another
player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.

threads of sanity cascade
through empty spaces
where thoughts no longer hear
my words not spoken

through empty spaces
where shattered dreams contain
my words not spoken
shouting through my hollow body

where shattered dreams contain
syllables of silence
shouting through my hollow body
through blue river veins

syllables of silence
reaching out for empty spaces
through blue river veins
where thoughts no longer breathe

reaching out for empty spaces
touching faraway mountain tips
where thoughts no longer breathe
black across the midday

touching faraway mountain tips
threads of sanity cascade
black across the midday
where thoughts no longer hear