Friday, March 28, 2014

Chapter 46: In Writing

I will not fear night-terror
the gaping pit of dark
will close my eyes
and lay me down
in the tender shelter of your palm
knowing day-break
when the sun climbs its steep incline
gathering the winds

I am here
recalled by name

To send forth
and know return
see the ladder
build its rungs
To come, and find you coming
over the edge of the hill
flowing with the sheep
familiar taste of tears and loss
your pulse pulsing mine

On its beat
I die
ready to be
with you

now that I see your living face

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