Oasis
The quiver of pens
stood as the sultan's plumes
in the shady corner
of his earthen desk,
ready to be taken up
to write a poem, a letter
to his love of language,
the queen
of words unspoken,
the fairest
of his silken harem,
that elusive scarab.
As a slave would fan
his royal person
the pen would be taken
in hand
and the ink
would spill forth
onto the page
as a bloodletting
and when all was said and done
he would be free,
his thoughts escaping
from their tented prison.
Thus, the sultan lay
on his pillows
in a cool place
and wrote,
letting his blood
onto the parchment:
O the glory of it!
Sweet blood,
fill my soul with hope,
little feathered angel,
enigma
in this barren wasteland,
pool of purest water
in my heart's desert.....
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