Travelers From A Dark World

By Sydney L. Wensel

This hope becomes a bezoar—

A thatch of impossible knots—

In my aching, tangled tummy— 

Threads of faith and foretaste 

Coiling deep and low, 

Hooked by your beckoning fingers 

And come-hithering—

Hungry fruit caught on a hand 

Reading soft, secret notes.

I wait for an evident invite,

         stark words— 

         needs laid bare.

For if there is a good night

I would not go gently into,

That night is yours— 

Nude and Vitruvian, 

I’d burn amongst the stars there.

I swear I don’t mind the darkness— 

With your voice my leading hand.

We— two travelers from a dark world

That no one can understand—

Rave with hunger for the light,

Pushing toward the tunnel’s end. 

I’m all yours,

      all yours,

      all yours—

I’ve told the Moon, 

With witching hour whispers 

Of my future plans.

By Sydney L. Wensel