...and the pages have turned
where I have been at my richest chapters
of my delicate inscriptions of time
That texture which shall remain
and to be smoothed over again
by the footprints of a mindful gallery
...and I sit and ponder
sifting thru the images
Of the struggle and triumph
behind the doors of our hollow chambers
within our licorice black rooms
There we lay our heads
upon feathered pillows
and we polish our brass beds
beside the cleansing of our souls
I am focused and I rewind
back and forth those perished seconds
I tremble and I laugh hysterically
a tear is stranded behind
...and sweet honeysuckle
contains my cold hallways
from spent gardens of yesteryear
The moon comes in shades of pearl
an essence of unpolished jewels
that rents shade and slumbering
to our tones of cappuccino earth
Smudged walls and shattered windows
gleam by the light of an aged candle
a carnelian colored vase rests aside
...and I daydream of Africa
and the mystery of Amethyst
a crystalline wonder of nature
where somewhere that elusive
tree of life
There is no revisiting yesterday
with touch or foot falls
but for a mere hologram of memory
for there is nothing but empty space
an echo and blurred detachments
of forbidden thin air
...and `tho I continue to plant my Lilies
they are a beautiful reminder of life
Here in this glimpse
I resurface
from a distant space
Returning all the artifacts
of another captured print
I close that book and cinema
But behind my aging eyes
the theater of past and present
plays on...