Soon it is over and dust covers pages.
You come to the page with blood on your hands.
When you turn around its always the past.
And rain falls forever somewhere.
Inside we empty the minutes to hours,
And the days are horses running the hills.
I wait by the door of unknown tomorrow,
And gaze at the past's unsettling dream.
This ensemble draped in scarlet begonia,
I breathe night's intoxicated hour,
As all the days have fallen to dusk.
In days of dripping sinks and emptied vases,
As the hours used up are spilled from the cup.
A sheen of rain falls on the living,
As the dead dream of Heaven no more.
A whisper of wind scattering pages,
A church of words built from the ground.
Where's my specter, the color of silence?
Caught up in echoing air?
Where are the Exiles, they're hands smeared with berries,
Do they witness to a choir of clouds.
A lute of dark birds gathered in shadow,
As wind stirs the dry husk of leaves.
A void overtakes the yellowing pages.
A dark house consuming my winter of words.