What currents sweep me to retreat
Back from motions for which she’d churn
A soothing mouth with words undone?
Senseless sensations on gravity’s plea
To unite with sacred effigy to burn
A life in the great, blissful wide one.
Here, the curtains falls to recollect
The dust that laced the distant threads,
While light enters through to resurrect.
Each storm about her hair, to the dead
That lust over each wide grain
With soil that depletes, pressures that thrill
Calls me to conceive the motions that tread
The faint stories with tears for stains
From a heart uncovered, never filled.
Great motions for which we sail
As idle beasts inside the space,
For life with ease can never pale.
Stories as old as covers to face,
Spelling words adjacent to the mind
Where logic crumbles the stricken self.
Leaping fragments from the trace
Of her burns, to her formidable kind,
With funerals romantic to the shelf.
Her story as old as what’s late,
Of memories that feather her tapestry
In enigmas that spell her state.