A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

SLEEP

To be cradled,
By angels,
While I sleep,
In love as high,
As my darkness
Is deep,
With Holy kindness,
Rid my blindness,
And bid this heart
May start to weep.

GREAT SPIRIT

Great spirit,
Whose ghostly face
I see,
Where sound 
Be heard,
Or light
Observed,
Hiding,
Just beneath the ear,
Secreted in the eye,
Quivering
Within the tongue,
To steal sweet textures,
Or perched,
To pluck a fragrance
From the air,
Forever young
Your beating heart,
And fleet your feet
Upon the ground,
Shifting there,
As all the shapes,
Thus designed,
There,
Outlined
By the grace
And favour
Of curious delight,
Might your face
Be found. 

HUNGER

The oppressive pecking 
Of narcissistic ravens,
Stealing every errant crumb,
The vacancies of their gut,
Sharpen a cruel gaze,
That wastes nothing,
In this thievish alchemy,
The cheapest paste,
Transforms
To jewels. 

STAR

I remember this bright star,
Whose light bestows my liberty,
Banishing afar,
Those shadows of desire,
For this itself is my fire,
Its warm flame of fullness,
Only felt,
Through this crack in time,
An axis for heaven or hell in turn,
Where burns the lustre of idle dreams,
To ash and wholesome plenitude.