Turquoise

Turqoise

Seventy two minutes into tomorrow,

Quiet comes to me,

He takes apart my vastness, 

and He beckons, languidly - 

He bids me, dreams of colours:

of Spectrums long and deep.

In words of hue and fancy - alas,

'Tis language I do not speak,

He undo, consumed yearnings:

of patience, unrelenting:

He tells me future stories,

of Patterns disintergrating -

He shows me, maudlin memories:

Refurnished in my own terms.

The place within - Disarranged,

by proxy reaffirms,

That in Silence,

ever grateful Silence,

we find a greater Deed -

that henceforth seeds the verdant,

with auspicious treachery;

We fear the noble nothingness,

by Quiet it be done,

in ones and twos we come apart,

for All things do not last -

So Quiet bids me farewell,

He takes the scenic route -

nothing marks His passing,

nor sand nor rock nor bones, 

and pencilled words along the margin,

like softly-telling prayers; (my voices?)

passing weaves and drying eyes,

crumbling cities, 

Quiescent colours -

and apart, together -

there and now:

Colours swim in noiseless fashion,

a single word retrieved, 

do make of me,

a bright and somber

turquoise.