Sitting in Michael's Lap
How gently whispering the rain
outside these dreaming walls,
Where starlit reaches fill the space
behind the weeping sky,
How distant, now, the pulse of pain
that in the darkness calls
To that which fades within the place
behind my weary eye.
How sensual the very air
that moves upon my skin;
A current stirred by only breath,
the ghostly fingers press
A loverís touch upon my hair,
and I am caught within
A vision of a tender Death
surveying his success.
How deafening the silence rings
when all thatís left to hear
Is that which marks the slow defeat
of all youíve ever been;
What bitter tune the rhythm sings
to this unwilling ear
That marks with ever slowing beat
the dirge of final sin.
How tranquil shall the morning break --
the one Iíll never see --
The world unceasing in its ways,
while life moves swiftly on,
Unknowing shall the songbird wake
to sing its melody
While eyes in seeming wonder gaze,
unseeing, at the dawn.
†Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest
[This message has been edited by Skyfyre (edited 04-15-2000).]