Dead Is The Night

DEAD IS THE NIGHT
( 'dead'icated to the One )

Dead is the night which smells not of you
Dead the morning with its listless song
Dust gathers on the wood, traces of blue -
Time seems so soulless, and absence so long.

And fingers etch your name, o bright love
The burn that's you, rushes in at the tips
Singed, yet I touch all that I have
wishing they were your honeyed lips.

Morning drops by, dregs in a tea cup
Tastes so bitter, quite the burnt wood.
The mask is gone, and the sun is up,
And silence like distant thunder stood.

You, oh you, who is so enmeshed in me,
crossed strands; threads in a garment
covering each other, a grey sea
of 'tormentous' boil and ferment.

Time, now - a lifted pen on a staring page
Bookmarker to a book we used to write
do come soon ! this the fire, this the age
for without you, dead is the night.

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