A whispered wish, longing soil deep,
Touch the stars; all are called to weep
Trillions of lifetimes, we shall strive,
To grasp the heavens, to truly thrive
But distance vast, and transparent the walls,
Keep us from picking up on unanswered calls
A cosmic dance, swaying fraternally
Wanting touch, past the moon, eternally
Across the Earth, our fingers yearn,
Galaxies, expanse whispered to burn
To feel the warmth, the light, the grace,
A longing dream, of time, not of space
Each infuriating moment, we implore,
To touch that something, even more
But dark does not fade, and silence reigns,
In our roots grasp, demanding hope sustains
Lifetimes spent, our stems and trunks weather beat,
For that unattainable, distant treat
Trillions of years, our worship solar,
To touch heaven's, bright star and toller
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.