Wordsong

Words heave, tease and rumble,
running beneath furrows of my skin,
under folds and cracks and pores,
arcing through bone, lining my vacant eye with shadow
like crystalline shorelines, metamorphosed
from emptiness into being.
The space between us
breathes like flame swept on a wind
to lick, lightly caressing its tongue
on the coarse, damp fabric of existence,
which, upon realisation and affirmation,
calls itself to awakening.
Do words dwell within this space?
Like pollen or fairydust or speckled sunlight
or rather reminiscent of thought, not yet formed
but conceived in essence and form,
animate, pulsing, dimensionless.
Do words flow like memory?
To the tune of currents and streams,
channels and corridors,
fabricated within, but radiating outward
like spiral arms locked in embrace,
interwoven strands engendered
by the collusion of our convergent fates.
Ours is not a story wrought from myth
nor from nascent imagination nor fantasy;
but instead, forged in realms beyond the waking hour;
where, under the watchful hands of time
our minds are stripped free of pretensions
and order is restored.
Your hour is now, sweet love,
don't resist the swirling tide, curled at the lip,
for swept along under summer skylights together
nestled between solstice and equinox
we shall pass, the way it was foretold.
And onward lies the raucous din of eternity;
a tumultuous roar that is,
has always been and is still to be.