Monday, March 24, 2014

Temple

Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories. Black harp and morning doves, I keep this silence of mine together. In case any whispering become voices, they heard right. Sanctuary is the temple I seek from your lips.

Sweet Spirit

At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the ...