Shy Writers

I can feel your sound though the vapid spaces

And haunted intervals

Of this organic tedium.

When light refuses to provide us anymore glory,

I stand

At the doorstep of desire

And lay a wounded prayer at your feet.

I dreamt of you

And I

Weaving tapestries,

Nets for our fish

Which escaped my womb in tandem.

Their slow and steady grace

Crushed the column of our demons

I hope to be warmed by the fire

Or sip the nectar of your song.

Charlene Jenelle Grant-Stuart