Psyche’s columns
The verity made betwixt our minds and eyes and hearts and hands?
It is the substance of our silence and the flightiness of a step.
It is his outrage and my torrent weep.
It is a distillation in a day’s evenin’ end.
It is the hours by book and coffee-glass spent.
It is the stuff of lips alighting on his brow,
Handsome sprees of payment for his pensive liberty.
Lonesome groans birthed in wordy revelry.
It is between us suspended: oh, aeonian heavenly question.
One, I, insistent in His nature.
The o’er dwelling on nature’s own nimbus
(That Being being beyond man’s cursive start, in any land’s prescribed indite.)
His thoughts a gentle zephyr agitate through psyche’s columns.
posted by Rachel Beach | 5:08 PM
2 Comments:
Your poem was fresh
like the morning dew
on a spring flower
on the Atlas mountains.
You quest for truth hidden
in hearts brightened my day
as I seek the same in the midwest.
Funny is a soul's search in the ever-quiet world.
Hi, I was surfing the web and found your blog. I was wondering if there is a way to contact you about questions concerning Morocco and the PC. My staging is in two weeks!! March 1st, 2008
Elizabeth
iguanita173@hotmail.com
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