Keeper of the Dust

I see... I see his eyes blink each morn on the western reach each trembling twilight they hide, soft, behind the bracken when day melts the noon sun to drip like paraffin upon the sacred slope of you - nape-to-shoulder, down - its naked bright can not hope to swallow that dark, tolerant gaze that peeks from behind you... he was there - there to hear the pale pains of my bearing quiet and close, he counted every step and gasp and careful kiss he has watched, silent for each wonder and wound and drip of sweat from my brow... I wear his laurel upon my head, thorns of the black roses bleed, unseen deep, and deeper still his coal eyes have glistened behind each dream the answer to each query - end of every road the chant, long-suffering chorus to all songs and sounds sweet, dark, gentle as a baby's breath tender as a lover's sigh truer than any truth of tongue or time or testimony... colder than the void mystery of mysteries, terrifying and patient, he waits for us all and I see his eyes... smiling.