You are there
at the end of my misshapen words,
syrup drizzled fatigue and pliant,
I’m draped over well shaped thoughts,
made of frozen tears from angels crying.
Only a pen to unbury your secrets
I’ve dug many holes across this desert.
No treasure on these pages, afire.
Thirsty, but I fear a drink
would cure me of my desire.
Tired, but fearful
that respite beneath a shade tree
will cure me of my wandering,
from following the trail of words
across my heart, all the while pondering.
This anguish puts me beside a realm
yet of which I am not apart from.
On the edge of your shadow,
wishing for One light.
It is not natural to feel pain,
it is just a misshapen requisite.
