Time has no hands when moments are gone
The vast openness left unkind, hollow as the empty glass
I once knew the many languages to bring you here
The trace of my tongue against your desire
Was nothing more than the burgeoning colors of sunrise, sunset
Yellow, fire red
Across the womb of your flesh-like wanting
That I could spin a web of sanctity
Which no spending of minutes could go beyond
No prison of age, or solidity,
No inconstant between the balance of light in your eyes.
And Pillars, are made from the validation of your hands
Taking gentle turns upon my skin.