Some mornings are as quiet as the grave
cold
save for the body heat
which keeps one warm in the mist through the dreams
where we woke and we kissed
but listen,
no sound.

A silence tempting in its silence
capturing romantic thought
and dressing
caressing whispers of the heart.

Where are you in this diagram I built
from sweat and aching joints
and ****** imaginings
and do you see me
swimming through the sea with my lungs on fire
and coughing fire that dissolves the night
Were you on the shoreline
biding your time to make an entrance
did my wanderings have doors?

Do these awakenings break some saintly glass
where only good men's lips would ever pass one goodly word
and if that be so
why do my lips seek out this chalice?
in which the diamonds shine and solace can be bought from
the bones of another yesterday.
Where once again I say.
some mornings are as quiet as the grave.

A morning not meant to be
in undercover
tucked down deep
inside a memory of some other day.
A morning where temptations are too strong and the road to glory far too long
where it's easy to lie back upon my back
and stack the reasons one by one in which each reason has no reason to go on
and still,
A morning such as this morning brings
sings to me
of love in its infancy and cradles me
in softened light.

Some mornings are as quiet as the grace
save for the trumpets sounding in my ears
and the dancing of my eyes across her thighs
and when she wakes and sees me
reaches out to me
smiles,
it doesn't matter how many miles it is on that road to glory
I walk them on my knees
quite willingly
and she is this reason
and if there is a reason after all
not some grasping image in a crystal ball
that would only clutch at me
and not so tenderly
she must be that.