Her touch is as cold
as the snow on statues

I wait in my dark suit
like a suitor in the shadows

cast in the courtyard of the dead
alone in the middle of the night

she shows her folded hands
holding the Ace of sorrows

black like the flowers
I bring her tonight

beneath a silent moon
gathered like dust on my boots

late in the afternoon
as I walked along the low road

to call on her
in the garden of stones.

And before the morning unfolds
we consider our experience
of that in which these
beginnings begin..
Imagining the transparency
of the joyous fullness
from which and in which
and as which
the song emerges...

Don't make friends
          with
The dead

          We see far more than we should
The thirst for life,
Is
          quite overwhelming,
With us
           We are hungry
No sleep for we
Never any solace
          We are,
That we are
Dead things

                  Ever living


Ever thirsting....

                  For you