It is the silence

Of the night

That permits the echo

Of yesterday

To repeat;

So I must dream softly

On the surface

That the life

I have accustomed

Would not tomorrow’s

Whispered siren

Itself delete;

From a tapestry

Of patterns

In designs

Of distant Kingdoms

Where my lost and

Wandering spirit

Does retreat;

What is more the burden?

How I’ve sinned in my confessions?

Or the longing for temptation’s

Constant beat?

2012.09.28.0130 ©