Crystalline Divinity
My flower grows on a lucid hilltop pride,on land that never erodes and thrives
through death's caressing touch.Capsulized in crystalline, her petals fall like
dewdrops painting the winds cries. Tears kiss the pain; my hurt is in my eyes, my
truth, my mask, the softness-crier that feels without touch. And though I hide, she
knows me, holds me, turns my stray into life. Evanescing-assuasive-blind is my
faith, and she, her majesty, is divine, swaying all that moves and carries onward
life. I, in limbo, lie and watch her at night. Reading pagan psalms, I learn the
many ways, the many lights that guide seeds of iniquity away from exacerbating
plight, the many moralities of mortality.
And, though, I read book after book and ponder songs sacred, forlorn, I weary on.
My feet imprint where I've been, foot-stepping my physical path of everyday morn
and always-ending night. Be it, every step that has been taken, that is who am I,
questions that rest with the mind. She, like an angel of a ghost, foot-fell softly
upon my chest and opened my body, dim to her own. She can see the tracks,
intangible, the home of my soul. Clothed, I fade naked to her affectionate whims,
soft touches that sink core-deep, company that lies by my side, ecstacy that sub-
heal-sinks into euphoria. When she leaves, my dreams call for her, bleed out for
her, frantically seek her guidance and love.
I am a faithless man drawn to a light which likeness brims in a body of
sweetness, a body that scents warmth echoing after each smell, the sweet smell
of my flower. It soothes the aching-wondering, the lost-fantasm that makes me
heavier, the metal that makes me harder. Where I'm going, I do not know, but I do
choose where, when I walk away, when I go on. 'Pray I do not walk in vain, for,
one day, I wish to be king of my domain, myself. But, who am I to say what days
will fall onto mine, what power I really have, if I should ever fall in one of the ides
like a great leader gone too far?
Solitude and ambiguity is my remedy for the illness-uncertainty. All I know is what
I want, what beckons me, my unbridled urgency-eternally. And, always, she
knows my faithfulness to her, but my choice is my spirit. But, then, I cannot
pretend I don't yearn for something more, for something greater than myself, a
cradle in which to sow my end. Only life-ambiguous is relevant. With chance,
patience, and prayer-faithless, perhaps I'll rest with her, my flower, everlastingly
in crystalline-divinity.
Copyright © Michael Guerra | Year Posted 2006
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