Every Seventh is a Rest.
The Day after the Seventh Sevens, a Renewal.
These are the Sevens of Days and Years,
Of Time marked by the Sun and Earth.

The Sevens of Moons is a Recursion
Every Seventh, a Seven, and is Half a Time,
The Fullness thereof, a Twelve.
And every Seventh, a Sacrifice.

I'd traveled the distant vessels
of many an emptied lake
Sojourned fallow desert paths
praying for ancient rains

Great clouds in graceful conduct
Danced their lonely lover's gait
Quenching thirst of other grounds
With such a timely rain

I found upon a poesy
hidden in the shade
Took them gentle to my breast
to kiss away their pain

In creatures here the loss is felt
In summer sun the byways melt
No place for sacred waters run
When Her decisive motion's done

Placed beyond this bowl of stone
The ordered clasts of city grow
On mausolea of daffodils
Her voice forever ceased to know

The glow of sun in zenith speaks
To Her and me through haze and dream
Through knotted rock and speckled sky
I came undone in Her sweet eyes

as a children we were taught
that boys were not supposed to "pretty"
they were supposed to be handsome,
manly as well as tough,
and a bit rough around the edges

as a children we were taught
that boys were not supposed to be "pretty"
but as you looked at me
glossy lips stained the color of cherries
and laughed as a child would

the sparkle in your eyes had never faded
a smile playing at your lips, you asked
"but i am pretty, aren't i?"

I miss––for still I miss.
My lips are stone, and cannot kiss.
My year was long;
What is this "bliss"?
What is love?
I can no longer reminisce.

I miss––for still I miss.
Heart is empty; no roar, no hiss.
A year, and you're still gone,
And poems are written into dawn.
Thoughts are dark like an abyss.