I had woken, and looked at the stars,
My hand across my eyes where,
Between each finger tip vast stretches
Of dark hues silently keep their secrets.
And of the moon becoming small again
Diminishing yet unreconciled.
I think of the harsh lands
Smothered under a dun sky,
Bound with knots of unguent odours,
Throttled by the underbelly of rancid smoke.
Perhaps if you look long enough
Deep within its wounds,
There lies a soul.
Battered, bleeding and sorely needing
The soft hand of redemption.
I’ve heard of hands laid upon a head,
Taking the wrinkles that have long become twisted
And smoothing them, creasing out the nightmares.
And maybe those hands flickering with a butterfly touch,
Will take this weary soul, caress it softly
And make it whole.
I see a lake, high above the mountains,
Where water laps on a pebble beach.
Consummating the stars and the fickle tides of love.
Throw upon the shore the wreckage of the world.
I feel the gods dancing in the undergrowth cry out,
They dance before me.
And I closing my fingers,
Hold them in my hand.