19 October 2014


An owl hooted twice

Rising in the desert mists

A fog built its wings

Flight upward beckoned to mind

As memories stirred in sand


A woman rolls dice

A man trusts his only fists

The nightingale sings

Spirit flocks towards its kind

Ushers bow to giving hand


The cutter would slice

And no Page ever resists

Praise to keen ears rings

Coin to great will ne’er bind

As prophets ne’er births a land


Leaking covers run

The flame its death surmises

On boils the kettle

A lost soul in eyes’ hollows

Harkens to mortuary


Winding rivers spun

Deceits’ tales one despises

Up springs one’s mettle

Rising takes not meek fellows

For deeds of noctuary


The clock has struck one

And as the holy rises

Dust does not settle

And the unholy follows

So I claim sanctuary

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