Through the torn surface with edges curled
I writh, through the never ending rift of light.
The torn sheath, its parchment colored white
beckons, surface fears squirm in angst unfurled.
With edges curled, adepts display the night.
I writh, diving inward laughing, almost contrite
through the never ending spiral, I am hurled.
Rifts of light on onyx night chose to reunite,
within the torn sheath a birthing infinite.
I writh, its parchment, a mere veneer, parts swirled
colored white,as dense as night, its content bright
beckons, bringing finer truths to all that's right,
through the torn surface with edges curled.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Contest:GLIMPSES OF EPIPHANY