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
