Silently woe betides me,
leaving myself in ruins.
Woes, such as wars, get pricey –
out, in the vault my blue is.
Winds croon, “Alas, thine creature.”
Make tarter croons to storm me.
Flames on the right cheek… preaching...
turning my left – to warm it.

Give me myself to come round,
stay as a guest or wholly…
Let me outpour the light up
till all my wraths stop calling.
Let me sublime in limbo
as native tongues would vanish.
Streams of my word are drying.
What should be left to banish?

Someone stroke wings of stillness,
eyes – looking glass of sorrows.
“Quiet!” – I try to live on,
sensing the dust of morrows,
bringing a lump to my throat,
“Hush-hush… Amore Mia.”
Moments are resurrections,
peace holds untapped ideas.

Sounds grew, the heart was patient,
parted – no pounding needed.
Pain is the depth of my roots,
drops of the moonshine’s bleeding.
Somewhere betwixt my home and
steps with its careless distance
Sun keeps inlaying landscape
under my eye insistence.

Burning of grieve is lengthy.
Longer – own faith to treasure.
Be my cloaked-always slayer,
have for my sentence measures.
Basta, enough with chanting!
Can’t hold with morns and bury…
Steps out of me in tears…
Mother of Pure Love, Mary.

17 December 2009