She is an atlas
her eyes deepest
and darkest Africa

Unfolded I hold her
tracing the source
of her diamonds and gold

In search of the motherload.

With night sky
there is usually
a moon there.
Usually.
But not always.
A pale surface
beaten into—
An expression,
as if saying,
"I am tired.
I have seen too much."

i miss the silence
of your empty
hand

you drive
your face breathing
a white
light into the dark

the snow
falling like ash
on the road

-----------------------The air that
                               surrounds us
                               crackled
                               the temperature
                               s p i k e d
         our                                              scorched
       ­  skin forgot                                                   how it was to be
                                                            sk­in
                               that moment
                               we touched
         that moment
we                           touched
               ­                                                                that moment our skin both
                                touched
         it only knew
         that it was
         meant to
         be shared
                                touched
felt
­loved-------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------

She was nature, beautiful
But deadly, her cheeks as
Scornful as a rose, the smile hid
The thorns underneath.

Her presence though unseen,
Could be felt, like the sun's warm
Breath on bare winter skin.

She led him somewhere secret
As the night lures the stars,
As clouds gorge on the
Fragile light of the moon.

Over the crumbled bodies
Of leaves, into the alien
Land of tranquility.

When he woke, hands burning,
There was nothing left to see.
Only a faint feeling glistening
In the air, a failing heart and
A tongue full of dreams.

These words...
They traverse the fine line between earth and sky.
They dwell not, surface-deep in the dirt.
They be haloed not, as the chorus of heaven.

They're just murmurs that swim intangible.
Like reticulated wisps of smoke.
Incapable of materialising...
Or take definite forms on their own.

They only await to be carefully selected,
rearranged and harnessed into a jar...
Before being sealed infinite with a title.

Be quiet and still...
For you will hear them.
Milling and floating in the silence
that exists between your heartbeats.

Listen close...
For they are fragments of you
and the universe.
They're thoughts and feelings that come awake
as you slumber.

Awaiting to be selected...
Awaiting to be rearranged...
Awaiting to be harnessed...

By you,
the conduit with a pen.