3/21/08

11Jul08

There you sit, on that brown leather chair.

You; Heraclitus’ ever-changing foot in a river.

Countless tiny grains of sand.

I want to witness you.

A perfect cube of anomalies.

I want to explore you.

Your sharp edges of aql.

Which carve soft handles of humanity.

Ribbed robust sides of character.

Of the clay pot filled with nur that you are.

From a teacup to a large pitcher.

Turning on a potter’s wheel.

Pouring out the shehd of eternity.

You make me want to stomp my feet.

And send ripples underneath your skin.

Beautiful.

What good is the mouth of my mind?

The taste buds of my senses.

The appetite of my soul.

If not to want you.

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Tags: poetry