Sometimes the night’s too much. Prayer won’t even
deliver relief to my body/mind’s
pulsing tension. Petitions to heaven
seem stamped received then
crumpled, dropped behind
some careless cloud, left for eternity
to ignore: love’s definition of hell.
Then Her deep, silent voice of certainty
flowing from gut to heart rises to tell
each cell to rise and write of you—your eyes
locked behind sunglasses, not to protect
you from light, but me from your pure iris
dreaming us too soon to cosmos. Lyrics
of reality suddenly appear,
revealing your song I never could hear.
Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2014
