Your song caught
me in the limestone church.
A hope it was
your mirror
Pierced my
sleeping scar.
Stuck in
weathered tar,
I believed your
worn cantor,
False tales of
gold barley and birch.
The fountain
steps grow cold as I sit
No longer waiting
for you.
But still you
can haunt
This, my dream
crazed taunt
Under your
spell, all in lieu
Of my desire in kindled grit.
I danced to the
beat of your mirage,
Falling short of
your eye line.
Breathing sand
gave pause
To your clearing
cause.
I rose your
fretful, prized swine,
Breaking down
your crippling image.
Your voice echoes no more in my breast.
I listen for
silent chants.
For only here
will my soul find rest,
Snared in the
waking.
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