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Poem

There is a spark, a whisper 
That dwells within my heart
That cannot be touched upon by
Conscious ambition.
To put a finger to it
Would be liken to 
Foreseeing the final resting 
Place of a falling 
Feather. But still
It is there, abiding, hidden
As if by a veil, a veil
Upon which rests the weight
Of Heaven and Hell.
Could I but raise 
Such a gift, such a burden.
Could I but smash the 
Sacred mirror 
Would the whisper sigh, whir,
Would great Ise fall?
A treasure that lies
Dormant, it does not sleep
But waits in terror and wonderment, 
Like a tome yet to be penned
By the hand of the fiercest 
Of angels.
The spark
The whisper 
The falling feather
The holy trinity of 
Love and desire yearn 
For the lifting of the veil,
The cleansing of the sanctuary
The sound of a pin-head dropped
In the hallowed halls of Moria.
Or perhaps simply the
Briefest of glances from
The corner of an eye,
The smell of fragrant leaves
After the rain,
A single dust mote drifting.
Some will say the 
Great Game of the Cosmos 
Is played out in the fraction
Of a second, the blink
Of an eye. 
Some will tell you there is 
No spark
No whisper
No falling feather.
I say lift the veil
Cleanse the sanctuary,
Perhaps you will see the fruit.

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