The Palace is silent.
Corridors tremble and grow still.
You were born for this.
The Great Peace rustling in his robes.
Can you climb out of yourself?
I am struck by symbols.
Ancient ladders crumbling to dust.
I have shouldered the shadows.
Stop the cars. Stop them forever.
Traces of fear in the feather.
Prayer drew me to itself like a chair drawn towards a fire.
The bells are ringing in the ear of silence.
The night-hand opens.
The sun sculpts your face, fleetingly, majestically.
Toward the ghost hour: stumble, reach, fall.
I create for stillness; for magical stillness.
Emptiness slides into your bones.
Shadows stalk the burnt interior. Flowers inhabit the shadows.
And then it begins: the slow feast of the sun.
To furnish the grave with the note.
We advance across the field burdened with a secret pain.
Deep into the water we lunge, this music full of spray and surrender.
Choices scratch themselves into the bone of the page which burns and dies.
This white fire of loneliness; this hidden flare of hope.
How happiness rings in the forge of unknowing.
What can you derive from this blank space?
I am walking upon the threads of your absence.
A gift has been announced. It is under your eye-lid.
The earth. Your body.
The lost fires burning in my palms.
Ineffable secrets, page of dreams, silence untold.