These bodies.
Husks and crusts of creatures.
Men.  Animals.  Rocks.

Alive for a moment.
Animate for an instant.
So much less than the


of Brahman’s eye.

He comes to me on the ether
of night.
He and he and he and

Always He.

Women have not marked
me so.
Women have not wounded
the heart of who I



Or Almost.


Only this, only these.

The comforting
scratch of ink on skin,
the tiny tear of needle
point on paper.

If only these never leave
me again.

At least not until the light
runs out
and the shadow
wights fall to slumber
all around me.


©sdrogers 30 june 2013

Thank you for letting me know you were here.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s