Pulse

Under every surface
the steam of our waking dream
a breath of a fraction of a moment
and the past dissipates
like dawn into day.
I hold it all in, begging the
beast of time to allow this
stillness, this pause--
The face with its curled
corner smile, even in sleep
smooth like the shores
of remembrance, in the waning sun--
The topography of my undoing
The claim I cannot stake
The voice I cannot speak--
Everything is hushed with a kiss
and you draw me in
Charcoal on parchment
tracing my lines of regret
erasing my misgivings
recording my fall with the
accurate grace of an architect.
A single line weaving its way
deep beneath the faded blue.

(copyright 2008 - Sheila Lynne)