No, not He who spoke softly to my ear,
His silence cast and branded from a mold to sear.
Then, the sweeping and coming of a bird gathering cloud and dust
upon Her black feather’s rust.
No more, no less. Pure.

Falling in, He rises for the rolling of a bird’s familiar tune.
Adjacent, He beckons past the gentle sweeping of a Fate’s doom.
He stood steeped to the filling line of a vessel true
then rose slowly for the apricot moon.

No more, no less. Pure.

This entry was published on May 23, 2014 at 9:14 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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