Under His Light

Like sunlight on winterskin,
such is the pleasure he brings.
Down, down, down… to the
high-pitched sound of insect-like
buzzing machines.
Will he be waiting for me?
Bottles of ink and parchments
of glory, all testify to the
intricate story that slowly unfolds
in my mind…-
how could I not bath him in light?
Yet, true is the heart that asks
for nothing in return.
I can’t tell him how I feel,
just abandon all hope as I lean back
and close my eyes…-
there are scars in the evening sky.
Green is the light of the
healing heart… or the demon
that tears you apart.
Down, further down. to the
ever soothing sound
of busily humming machines.
He had not been waiting for me.
The autumn-flower of spring
knows that hope is a terrible thing.
Content with what little may come,
his hands are warm like the sunlight
dancing on pale winterskin…-
I cherish the pleasure he brings
to me.