no longer a tourist
only there to observe

your fumbling hands
search for meaning

embrace complicated remains
in a room below the stairs

your skin, painted with so many seasons
recollects a yearning caress, the source of a jagged scar

your heart seeks
the innocence left wanting in the dark

you sense something, still aglow
that never succumbed to your history

before time has finished its poem of you
its words, both beautiful and cruel

you will wade deep
into that trembling mirror

to find the singular, singing light
at the center of the burning garden

where it holds the talking feather
and speaks in tongues