and the hymns of purple roses
seduced my naive presumptions
dancing beneath stained-glass
twilight tarnished by centuries
of metallic rain.
Angels congregate over the passion-
seas of lust, shaping the daylight
in her image and blessing the indigenous
people crossing her liquefied serenity
in small rafts built from the essence
of high civilization.
She claims the sun as her husband
and the moon as her first born daughter,
the pulsating stars are her reigning sons
but before she can finish her ritual...
I wed the night, climb the tallest tree
of the pulsar, sing slave songs while sitting
on the shoulders of an eclipse before
returning to my thatched roof hut where
my wife stirs my dreams in a cast iron pot.
Clay statues of prophets meditate
beneath her timeless wind-chimes
Her message swings in the far corner hammock
humming divinity's mating call.
She folds her spirituality in black velvet
and places the honied residue on my lips.
(c)Synnika Lofton 2004
published in Skipping Stones 2004
and in Ripples
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