On late nights, I sit and listen to the wind blow the geese around on the pond outside. I tell myself that one day I will have a reason to write poetry like this. Isn't it amazing how lack of sleep makes us so gullible?
Suddenly I felt annointed;
walked and talked knowing your eyes
strayed to the same thin moon, your hands
broke the same bread.
Just a profile & glimpse of white teeth-
Monday's quota of sacred manna
gathered.
Later, showered and hungry,
(no pillar of fire or cloud interrupting)
I notice night and the small moon bound in his arms;
I cannot ignore their proximity to each other
(she has always been fascinated by dark lovers, silly young thing).
but, politely, I turn from the window...
and start this poem to you.
Yet why should I?
those darkened stars are your necklace now,
a host of rich adornments
(do they burn, like my tears?
are they jewels in your vault of memory?).
Poetry is too fragile a medium to wrest you from yourself-
As if unspoken words ever won a human heart!
oh! But sometimes the fantastic occurs on this earth, perhaps....
Ah! You moon, take your black desperado away from my window!
You are deluding me --fifty sheets of paper will not conjure me up my desire.
I must wait until tomorrow, must wait until sunrise.
Thank God manna falls fresh every morning!
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