Sitting in Michael's Lap
I am ...
With a full heart, hidden
Somewhere in an empty room ...
With eyes not quite of autumnís gold, and yet
Neither all of summerís green;
I wonder ...
If love is a tale made for children --
A granting of sweet dreams in their innocence --
A honey-coating to help their throats
Choke down the bitter draught ...
I hear ...
A voice that whispers warnings, half-formed,
Bodiless as hope, until I swear I cannot draw
Another breath unless this spectre be unmasked,
His lies mangled Ďneath my righteous tread;
I see ...
A woman, proud, uncompromising,
Diaphonous as air -- less, even, than the tears
That fall in desolation about her weary feet,
Salt poison pooled upon the withered ground ...
I want ...
A measure of quietude, a certain silence,
The echo of alone which heals me of dreaming,
The nothing that stills the wanting,
The numb, the cold that laughs at pain;
I pretend ...
That I can live forever -- that Time
Has no puissance but that which I afford Him --
And so, I can wait, I can be happy tomorrow,
Sleep is for the dead; but its ghosts haunt my waking ...
I feel ...
Too much -- too deeply to be directionless,
Too real for imagining, and yet the familiar eyes
Hold nothing of recognition -- only my reflection --
A meeting of shadows in sunlit glass;
I touch ...
The downy wings of hope, in wonder,
In reverence, in need, in hunger;
Alas, it burns my fingers as a flame,
A sacrelige, self-defined ...
I worry ...
That I am alone; that in my longing
I have forsaken all -- but oh, what reward,
What smile divine should light the path to freedom --
And how can I but heed the sirenís call?
I cry ...
For having too much, for fear of bursting,
And then, when by the pouring of my soul
I lie, a vessel emptied, I cry again
For what was had, and lost;
That life is what you make it,
That sometimes, the coat of many colors
That marks your triumphs brightly, blends only
To loneliest of grey ...
That we are made by life, shaped,
Broken, perhaps -- unmade and voided --
But always, the core of us remains, waiting
With only faith, with trust, to be reborn;
Of bluest waters, reaching
With unnatural hands toward the faded sky,
Of dolphins that wander in seas without limits,
Carrying me water-breathing past corals and clouds ...
I try ...
To lead by example, knowing
That merely the telling holds no power;
A gift of giving is merely a day, while
A gift of knowing spans forever;
I hope ...
That my darkness holds you gently,
That pain is halved by sharing, that feeling
Wields nothing past the words it summons,
Except that it touch you with only healing ...
†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 04-30-2000).]