The Rift

Through the torn surface with edges curled I writh, through the never ending rift of light. The torn sheath, its parchment colored white beckons, surface fears squirm in angst unfurled. With edges curled, adepts display the night. I writh, diving inward laughing, almost contrite through the never ending spiral, I am hurled. Rifts of light on onyx night chose to reunite, within the torn sheath a birthing infinite. I writh, its parchment, a mere veneer, parts swirled colored white,as dense as night, its content bright beckons, bringing finer truths to all that's right, through the torn surface with edges curled. Poet: Debbie Guzzi Date: 7/31/13 Contest:GLIMPSES OF EPIPHANY