The finger has a touch
which penetrates centuries,
for longing days
and the want of adventure in the hand.
Our lost steps have divided
the will and the ongoing distance.
Flowers on the wall,
fingerprints in dreams,
washed out memories,
gently lie.
As above so below.
The scatterings of our ashes blow.
Sorcerers and shadows
tame the unknown.
The table asks why.
The chair asks how.
Magnetic resonance imagery
displays the proper aristocracy
through which the poor attempt to rise.
The better half of man is just.
Wisdom comes by way of orchestrated doubt.
We must reaffirm the gallant singers.
Let our souls depart on stolen ships
and let our feet set upon new land.
The hand that is open is that which calms.
Africa sleeps under the pale moon.
