Sunday, March 20, 2011


I step into the wind,
drawn like a moth
to this liquid flame;
to the searing promise
of transfiguration --
that all that litters
the edge of being
will be burnt away
by this cleansing surge;
that Truth will stand before me
rooted and immovable.
But what is left
when the wind that churns
these burning waves of regret
has died away; when blackened wings
drift slowly down
like ashes to the sea?

1 comment:

Maureen said...

Watched the videopoem today. You did very well!