How the light plays into the dark
like a moon through stained glass,
cutting a swarth across marble floors.
It seeps into the cracks
like water to the tracks,
how a distant piano
to a curious ear attracts
a frozen moment.
You follow the fleeting
seeking some origin,
reaching out for inspiration
as if it were original sin.
Recitations from a poem unwritten.
Words hidden under the tongue
of the surface incantation,
medieval in contour,
unchanged
namelessly forgotten,
however flourished with eternity.
The melancholy of indecision,
climbing the walls of narrow passages
like wisteria
you adhere to the impulse
to cover all that once lay bare,
manifest this destiny and call it progress.
I digress,
down blind alleys,
breathing in sanctuary
beneath a swaying sheet wind.
I drag tired fingers around the next bend.
The next barrier
is more impressive than the last.
There’s an attempt to grasp
something in the lapse between thoughts,
to preserve the feeling
too fleeting to remain aware
of its tingling presence.
Like a mist on the skin,
it is enough to inspire devotion.
Frantic steps ring off the cobbles,
a shadow climbs the wall
only to stall in chiarascuro.
Like a scene from Caravaggio,
this nameless friar
will pass through desire
until all becomes a dark entry in prayer.
Something is always left in these corners,
where candles aid their illumination
and thoughts drift elsewhere
in the dancing theatre
of undefined movements.
The unknowing becomes vagabond
to the warmest of comforts.
You find yourself
in these blankets of cloud cover,
observing holes in the disguise.
The veil suddenly lifted,
experience immediate
under infinite skies.
No longer a stranger
to reviving lines
fading like frescoes,
while time is like dead skin
floating down the drain of revision.
Flushed and transported by traces
left to sparkle on wet stone,
so that you can gaze upon these mirrors
and hasten a return home.
Home, your feeling
is kept fleeting.
A haven
so you can continue repeating
these steps that lead you
towards the perfect escape.
