He sits quietly in a chair in this two-bed room fine silver strands combed above a stubbly face, a distant look of satisfaction now that the heavy iron doors have slammed shut when in the mind he speaks to God of reality and drinks deep of a flowing nectar
Weary from a long journey a road traveled one-hundred times, now a tremulous feather drifting on the wind. How we dreamt then, long ago encircled by blankets of love, cycling with wind and sun against our skin
Snow on the mountainside melts while wet tears flow to the mirrored lake below reflecting a golden moon a ghost of himself. Calm still frogs interrupt, crows black as bins of coal disappear
I come to seek you longing for Egyptian Gardens after these halcyon years comb my hair while I comb yours shave my face while I touch yours
