Match

We meet each other, synchronized steps,

turning into flares of words that are like fire on the tongue,

glowing and ready to light

the waiting path ahead.

 

A chorus of whispers, soft as a first kiss,

fills the air and fuels the determination

powering our muscles as we run

to the portal

that will cast off the personas we present to the world

so we can dance together,

as ourselves,

until the concept of time is meaningless.

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Until the die read five or eight

I feel the monsoon sweating down my back,

see the darting tongues of vibrant purple blossoms

and the wrapping vines of sun-kissed waxy blooms.

 

I race the crocodiles down the stream,

run with the wild beasts who stampede over

burial grounds where their ancestors patiently wait.

 

I see the figurines move along their twisted paths

eyeing the telling jewel as their prize,

but the hunter guards it with savage delight.

 

A roll of the die is all it will take to freeze

the years of waiting to the far reaches of mind,

but will it read a five or an eight?

Why?

Woolens warming withered wrists.

Words written with weeds

while weighing Winter,

wary walks when weathered

worlds wonder whose war will win.

Windows washed, wherever

wishes whisper. Walls wrinkle,

wayward white wings.