This road is snake-like except
for the crusty scales of an intestinal
late dusk. A boy treaded on the
lane tracks lean and nomadic...
burnt shoulders grilled and toasted by
the sun, as if his coal skin sparked like
burning diamond weeds. In a flash, a tender
sorcery poured in my veins. There and then,
I longed to whisper a tune, play the tambourine or
partake of the loaf in my sack with him.
But he waited for paper clouds to ruffle his hair,
seemingly undisturbed by pilgrims like me
holding unto holy relics and bones of night. The gauze
shirt as his frock winged with the silver winds,
windblown stroking my ebony tresses with a whisper
hushed by his delicate omnipresence.
In a dimly lit bus, sand wheezed tribal notes
moist on my eyelids uprooted by uncontained
temples of longing, now becoming thick
as woolen destiny. If only for a flicker of time,
his eyelids met mine so briefly... parting saline dust
of sacred, smiling gazes. I was inside a cell
of a wombed bus. He was outside enlarged by a
hundred stars exploding dewdrops, inviting eternity.
For a fraction of silence, we met somewhere
between the fluorescent of our twin eyes. He, the angel
first fondly encountered ; I, the dreamer ever bewildered…
I remember...I was five.
(( P.D.'s " your Own Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud))