Made of Earth
It is the month of madness, rust withering upon iron,
The wind soft unfurling grows flowers of the morning.
Stranded on the shoreline thoughts hollow as a husk,
A woman is out walking, do you feel her silken touch?
The waters leviathan rising in frothy wrack of foam
Spectacles the stars, cries sharply at the dawn.
Rust withering in many wounds
And sorrow cry at dawn
And in her hair the perfumed flowers
In woven crowns are breeding.
Storms tuning to her laughter
Waking hungers and desires
Bidding left ways of the heart
To follow their strange fires.
Somewhere in that spattered land
Along empty lines of rain
Stung deep by morning flower
Is an undone voice of pain.
Battering at the windows
As she strums upon the lyre,
She guides into the wasted earth
The liquid of the loam.
Yet another hour rain sticks to wetted core
Again my aimless wanderings bring me to your shore
Yet another hour my thoughts transgress the void
Once more to hear the breathing of a seething hungry tide.
