What else is there but the pain we bear
Upon this fleshly cross of bone and marrow;
The twisted sinew of our life, the blood
In vessels of dark rivers flowing;
Movement of the guest hiding
In the eye, a dance of light cascading
Down into the hands, the slow grasping
And the slap of anger at our care.
She sat there sleeping in her chair,
And, I, who knew better than to wake her,
Sat there watching her as she breathed, silently.
What is love but a moment of silence dreaming?
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.