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.
