And I — for you — a harbour
of ever-growing sentinel stars,
substrate sister, set watch in the night sky for signs
of apocryphal tales, or quail, or strife,
and banish them from your vexed brow
to a deep and peaceful sleep.
In my reverence for you springs forth a lust
for the boundless, wandering soul,
nurseries of vice and unquenchable thirst, and
the eternal quests of a prodigal heart, creeping sullen
I study the relics of your words and tuition
like broken bits of pottery that hide in the diamond sand,
looking for the marrow of a scattered wisdom,
cobbled together like Frankenstein
from past bits and pieces of other lives.
And all I can think is many lives, your very many lives.
For such an old soul you must seem
abreast my unripe heart.
— susan southern-braiden.
( ( ( more of my poetry here … ) ) )