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.
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