In the shuttered rooms of dreaming night
the phantoms walk on light, unsteady, silent feet,
bare touch upon the polished timbered floor of dreams,
reminding heart that they no longer stand,
in worlds material where feel and touch still meet.
With tears unbidden falling onto darkened cheek,
the pain of loss is spoken without words,
and hidden in the guts of birthing, omnipresent dawn,
are memories which beat with small, dry hands,
upon the wall of distance; bitter curse.
For when we love and lose what we have known,
and hold to mourning mind the image cast,
of someone who has entered, made sure place within,
then carved upon Soul’s lintel is that name,
forever cut, fine-edged by grief to last.
It is as if the brightness pushes out of ready sight,
reminders of the one that has been lost,
and guards against reflecting, mirrored march of thought,
protects through daylight hours against that world,
where razor edge has not been polished soft