This is the poem I cannot speak outloud
where hidden niches sit inside layers of stanzas,
unfolding without redundant thought.
I am the calligraphy nib dipped in blue-black ink
writing out in swooping illuminations,
blessed illusions of splendour, hopeful
secrets fill this parchment.
Can you fold me into seven parts?
Fold after fold, making me smaller,
so small that this poem will all but disappear.
Only a hushed whisper of it will remain.
Words that will stumble out like a child falling down,
grazing their lip or knees, these words want to cry from this page -
awaiting that soothing touch.
Then: Has this poem mentioned love yet?
or the passion that made it spill out
onto this empty white page?
well you know, that this poem is for you.
Writing quietly
on my bed
in my room
alone
half empty
half lit
cautioned to the night sky-
slivered through the curtains
spending itself upon my naked heart.
The dark mystery
of you and this poem
become words
I cannot speak.
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