Who is it
that calls my name
in the whisper of the wind,
writes my name
across the sky
in wispy ink?
Who is it
that sits chattering
in the corner of my mind,
utters inaudible secrets
across a void
in ancient time?
Be it you,
Death,
who yearns for life,
embracing
with inconsolable grief,
or you,
Life,
who longs for death,
awaiting
for peaceful rest?
Who is it
that watches from within
in the in between of l,
offers enigmatic dreams
across deep sleep
in cryptic cry?
Who is it
that whistles
in the tune of me,
reflects my presence
across the now
in a haunting key?
Be it you,
Aloneness,
who desires companionship,
writing
with aching penmanship,
or you,
Memory,
who plays buried songs,
singing
with melancholic lungs?
Who is it
that dares trespass upon me
in the quietude of my temple,
waltzing awkward steps
across my spine
in ever spinning spiral?
Who is it
that plays
in the sanctity of one’s sanctum,
tossing sacred balance
across the chaos
in darkest stratum?
Be it you,
Shadow,
who seeks divine light,
fluttering
with broken wings in flight,
or you,
Fate,
who walks on shifting sands,
stumbling
with fumbling hands?
Be it who you are,
my name is my own
and I’ll drink your ink
across the sky,
dancing my steps
to any wind blown.
Be it who you are,
my sanctuary will stand strong
and I’ll sleep in tranquil slumber
across the dreams,
whistling my tune
to my own song.
