The Silk Brocade

The Silk Brocade

The silk brocade
Caught in a thorn, losing its
Value, for life, for adorning
A beauty, to qualify existence,
To justify the Creator, whose
Deft hands crafted it, with care.
The smooth silk dies. The craft
Will forever create brocades
That will delight who
Seeks it, in endless giving,
Blending in color and in sense.
Silk is chosen, condemned to
Everyone who can want it. Like
A thing that can be passed on,
With easy ebullience, still to
Lend itself to creating beauty,
And so goes its legacy.

The Insanity of Seeking

The room, enormous it is,
Like a wily twisting maze.
Restless, clueless, I am
Enclosed in its womb.
All ways lead to the torch,
Bearing the eternal flame.
Yet unthinkable it is for me,
To reach out, for it
Could die at my touch.

Let the flame give me warmth,
Transmitted through the walls,
Through the floor, in a gentle
Caress of a touch, a mere rustle.
Feeble in transmission, amplified
By my emotions, fooling my
Rationality. Forever in my paradise.
Clouded by my mind’s ravings,
Of my passionate calling.

Making silent love, in the depths of
My soul, forever embroiled in love
In the cold cell, desire
Running like a fever, so passionate,
So deep. I moan in pain, at the
Insanity of seeking warmth,
At the cost of the flame.

As my eyes burn, the fits of searing
Desolation hit me in waves,
Again and again, pushing me,
To dream the end of my exile, to home,
To her warm bosom, that bed of roses,
Upon which may my head rest, to
Fog into its deserved slumber.