I passed by a temple last night
it was locked, no visitors after midnight.
Even God switches off the phone,
forgets to hook up the answering machine.
The ocean sends back tragedies one
after the other, sand whispering secrets
of salvation. Are we old enough
to ask for freedom from our own heads now?
The waves reincarnate all my faith
religion and lovers on the wrong side of the bed.
All the oranges are peeling themselves
today. The switches have been turned off and on
so many times, we lay panic stricken.
Your lungs are filled with empty laughter.
Everything they told me is moth eaten
and but so am I.
My bones shape-shift into a goddess
every muscle a dusk tide.
Hold on, every revelation
is a beginning.
In December
all the lights blink twice,
q u e s t i o n i n g
before their homecoming.
I have been a smoke signal,
for most winters. The ghost in me now asks
for concrete jungles. I have had to armour myself
for so long I forgot
I could ask for your hands.
And maybe we be could be atheists tonight.
Maybe we could be lighthouses ourselves or
of each other. Most of my pilgrimages are to home
anyways now. All of these ships
maybe realising the north is
in each other
instead of the ghosts
they make us chase
our whole lives.
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