A Spark

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.