…where words have no currency
In the prelude to my lonely nights
when the world finally stands still
long shadows are stretching
elegantly leaning, into the quiet
whispers flow through trembling trees
where unseen hands
trace the blooming arc of darkness
a presence, soft as the velvet dusk
is silently shifting between thoughts
a mere flicker in the half-light
prowling with feline prowess
through the dark halls of memory
curled and waiting in the hush
eyes glinting and watchful
lingering by the thin walls of sleep
where dreams spill over into morning
the air is heavy, sweet and slow
a strange warmth creeps down my spine
my breath becomes shallow
and carries the scent of patchouli
with heavy hints of rose and sandalwood
this unseen presence
knows the hidden pathways
through my veins
the roads that my heart
keeps locked away in time
it brushes past the barriers
slips between the hours, like silk
its song heavily laced with ashes
like distant ocean waves
murmurs rise and fall in the dark
in the hushed tones of the past
and the echoes of all that is lost
in this dark place of absolution
where words have no currency
patiently, it is waiting
coiled in the darkness like longing
lingering at the threshold of hope
the guardian of my sanity
the keeper of my desires
and the unseen and almost real
steadfast it stands in place
until the dawn comes calling
when as always, it slips silently away
my shadow soul, running from the light
in the aching depths of my dreams
© Ann Bagnall
