A maid in the night.
Her cracked ice breath crazed on the air
that held her frozen beauty there,
the night maid with such quiet sighs,
looked up at star touched paper skies
where the writings of evening unfolded themselves,
like words from the books that had fallen from shelves
linking scatter soft memories with paintings of pain,
like the links of the bracelet she wore once again,
then up an unlit street she walked,
the kind where only silence talked
so eloquently in the shade,
a wonderful oasis played,
a haven for the tired mind,
a place for dreams of every kind,
all souls are welcome on the wall,
an open door for all to call.
and up the aisle an old man knelt,
she knew exactly how he felt
within his sacred catacombs,
remembering his Holy poems
of birth and death, of joy and pain,
he knew them, but could not explain
how streams join rivers, blue joins grey,
how things grow tall, then pass away
into the mysteries of time,
those relics of each blessed rhyme
that whispered softly down the aisle,
and made the young girl softly smile
for she felt life through open eyes,
with wondrous joy and sweet surprise
and when she walked through night or day,
no-one could take her dream away.
for dreams can rise like summer skies
before their final vision dies...
