The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                         †††† december-2011                                                    Number-2

 

 

 

 


 CALLING ME HOME

†††††††††††††††††††††† by Candice James

I walk through the violet dust of her dreams

In the deep sleepy shade of night.

The powdery fallout of yesterdayís moon

Glows and pools on the diamonds of time,

Scattered along this secret pathway I travel.

The wind gently tapers the smoky clouds,

Into finely honed, feathered figurines.

I languish in this aftermath

Of  angelís breath and fluttering wings

Embracing me in soft silent sway.

Something, long buried in my viens,

Calls to me in sacrosanct whispers,

Vespers chanting  ancient crumbled rituals,

Vestiges of peeling papyrus

Freshly emptying like sequined rain,

From the mosaic ceiling of my mind,

Onto the lush, grassy knolls of my soul.

Iíve reflected in these faces through the ages.

Iíve seen these ink stained pages before,

Blazing like liquid fire, white hot and red,

In the crystal blue lake of eternity.

Iíve heard these mandolins and sitars

Playing this strange familiar melody,

Time and time again,

Like sleepy gods

Calling me,

Calling me home,

To India

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