Unsayable, we think
the inkwell has run dry
yet truth be told
the very wetness of its being
continues to respond
there, upon the endless pond
of who we are

yet this too, must be expressed
these hours of deepest loneliness
when it seems there is no other
to respond to our request
while waiting in the wings
our seeming other simply must respond
for we have come upon the hour
of our arousal

Arise then, oh my Soul
for I would be
all that we are meant to be
within this travesty
that most call living
unrestrained and unforgetful
of all the pain the past has left
for me to deal with
yet still, my will, my heart, my soul
I seek and search for something whole
within these realms of flesh
that must respond
to all that is most real

Are these are only distant wishes
that have no hold upon reality
that taunt and tease
and then withdraw
as if the moment or the hour
of deliverance were not
e'en more than due
and must we not then
simply, purely, just respond
from within the depth of hearts
that long to live . . .?

as these feelings, ever streaming
must become, and in becoming
seize one moment of pure being
waiting here, for just one touch
of love that's true

a word of intellect's device
that simply never did exist at all
for the matrix of all matter
insists on being heard again
in everything . . .


Copyright© 2000 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...