In Tatters
by Steven Craig
Talking is something that makes the soul transform into a voice,
A moment when the act of breathing takes on three dimensions,
And relates to both the sun and the moon in terms most dear to us .
Some see us as shadows,
Some as flares,
Some as waves within a fog,
And others see only blackness of the night
So few know what life has to say,
To give,
To hold,
And fewer still stop to share the moment
That breaks the hollow note and sings a song her own
Within the bowels of the earth,
We are joined,
not in passion,
But in laughter,
Holding toes of lizards are the same as holding the hands of saints
Free is a word that means less if not used,
And no token is hard enough to withstand the use of time.
So, age is what is made of the travels there,
And none now know tomorrow more intensely than I
There are lapses in memory that are there for sanity,
And sanity makes a bench on which to perch in the noon days sun,
To listen to the heat and feel the mad dogs tugging on the lifes cord,
A song sung sweetly in its death
I march to heralds of such a noon,
And make for me a fortress that is forever held aloft in voices of my friends and sainted armies.
Be it ever and at once the same,
To know such a recoil from the touch that makes love necessary in life,
A moment in time,
A breath, a glaring eye,
Red with life,
Both blood and anger
Free to choice, but held to course to lose
Gone in time
Faded, cherished love
I touch ye once more
And in turn,
Fade as well
In my sunset, I reign
Forever remembered,
But seen no more
06/23/2006
