i take the sky in my hand
like chopsticks and i reach
across the farther cliffs and the dark sea
to pluck your secret, hiding heart
from its lonely place.
i bring it to my house beneath the sunset.
it will drink tea and grow strong,
and soon you must come retrieve it.
you have stayed too long
in the house of the wind,
sojourning among the people of the wind.
every day i turn my face
to the east, where smoke rises
from the groaning furnaces of progress.
there is no healing in that warmth:
your heart grows cold to me,
and i must steal it away
with all my strength.
dark satanic mills
Posted by: iserman at September 6, 2007 10:30 PM