The Harried Mystic

In sleep no more, rolls in the frosted fog of night,

phantasms drowned in waters of  a dripping faucet, entombed by aging walls.

Piles of  clothing cloaked in shadow await reclaiming, so many leaves in earth-toned hills,

when a misplaced stairway shoe drives home the real, stumbling-awake, and grateful for a well-placed Balustrade.

That active book now hides again, placed who-knows-where, joining my keys from the night before,

and a forgotten cup of long-dried coffee stands as relic of same-song nights before.

Lines obscured, the worn-furnished room, hushed and colorless, in empty space, in empty time,

grows warm and true, as Ariadne’s breath coats all in tenderness.

A lifetime’s keeper of lover’s thread makes sure the way back from fevered-hollows waking to dreaming light as air.

© Brother Anton and The Harried Mystic, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.