Monday, September 19, 2011

I am to the fallen these open doors
Glancing in this church, rising in steeple and prayer
I am that, as this too:
The entrance to a rounded temple,
a mosque in minaret call
A synagogue as guiding light
I am those colours that bend in stain glass window
That open belfry that lets in light and crisp, cold air
I am all those things, and the disbeliever, too
There is that importance of all this, this organized prayer
The awe of a God that We create
And there are those days I pray this disbelief will go away
But no matter, there is that rising steeple
that round temple
that singing mosque
that guiding light
I believe in all that, and revel in the beauty and closeness I see in open doors

She's got eyes like boarded up windows
A heart closed off to the street
Her hands have fallen:
curled and wasting against her skin lain along her lonely dress
She's too young to rise from hurt, to lift up strong from despair
But as darkness gives way to light
Her life will be that youthfulness
Till a boy she loves boards up those eyes,
Then she'll wear that lonely dress,
her wasting skin growing rougher and more calloused with age

The Voice
I heard her voice, five minutes away
That cry for help, she wanted me to come to her aid
But she was too far, her voice was five minutes away
The wind was strong, stronger than me; it robbed me of that time
it robbed me of her, her words silenced, she fell quiet as a grave
In years since, I recall only once of that day, that distance
That injured voice dying for my aid

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