A flash, a whisper, a spark, a star,
echoes and gossamer chains.
Of dreams that entice
the sleeper's delight,
we know nothing but
the patter of raindrops on glass.
A slow-kindled flame
atop long-simmering embers;
spectral desires eluding love's grasp.
A mist, a veil,
a well-festooned face
primped and predictably fashioned.
Though with the light of the day
all pretense fades away,
our lies belied,
our tepid souls revealed.
Bloodied knees covered in scars
of a reprobate heart
bowed to its gods of provision,
of ease, and allure.
We cast prayers before
in the light of the wavering moon.
O Watchman, look not,
or, we pray, willfully conceal
our lives of casual condescension.
Achingly, the hours prolonged,
cast their torturous tendrils among us
to lash and ensnare,
to wither and subdue,
while we await the light,
the dawn, the incarnation.
Grant to us this consolation and draw near,
for we are burdened and weary,
and from your horizon break finally.
