The Prose.

The prose of unspeakable longings
Familiar archaic and fierce
Returns all at once without warning
With phrases intended to pierce
A face filled with fire and water
With droplets that fall to the floor
With knees calloused over from kneeling
And dreams that I dream of the door
The door of unsearchable wanting
Cracked open revealing a light
That shines from a world found in whispers,
Both suffering and endless delight
O prose and O voice that arrest me
I pray that you carry your call
Persisting to hearts that are bleeding
Destroying this crumbling wall
On this road I keep walking onward
The Prose remains hauntingly here
With calls that light beacons in darkness
Long awaited arrivals are near
© Luke Wright 2011


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