Confronting the Angel

Gripping strands of my life

My hands clench,

But do not feel.

Pain

Scorching cold

Open like a flower in my spine,

Rolling from brain to toes,

Beginning where my youth ends.

My voice decayed;

Stretched and frayed,

Too thin to play,

Too low to hear.

When it was lost,

Yours led me safely,

Softly

Home.

Diverted, the dormant mind lies fallow,

Confuses belief with deed,

Dilutes the fiery tincture of imagination

To insipid wash,

Poured out,

Lost in sand and rock

Along the weedy path.

Distant music;

Your song,

My heart,

Grows faint, pale.

Is it your voice, or mine that cries?

In Sanity,

Insanity.

Belief,

Be Leaf.

There are lives that come to little more than life;

We must risk more than lightning to make a blaze.

Anita Hunt

01/18/07