Sisters

I once saw two old women cross the street.
I had seen so many in my day but these were particularly interesting to me.
They looked like two little girls I had known, their arms entwined,
clasped by the hands, like a beautiful Chinese brooch.
That seemed to have no beginning and no end.
The smaller one of the two,
I could see her eyes sparkle even at a fair distance.
Her wrinkles could not even mask them.
Her hair bounced like perfect ringlets only found on
Victorian dolls now a days.
I found it strange that her youth was so apparent.
Taller one of the pair, she seemed a
great Queen, ripped out from some Historical drama
that featured her royalty.
Hair too long and full to be nothing but alien for such a frail frame.
She held her companion as tightly and as firmly as
any mother would her offspring.
Yet the shorter one didn't seem look like she was being led.
They looked like they were in mutual support,
like the sun holding the Earth or
the Earth holding the moon.
Their clothes had no importance just pieces arranged as
flatteringly possible for there age dictated
what was comfortable and of function.
I could not put a culture to their worn out faces.
They seemed to be of all and of no one.
Being like all the women I had loved in my life...
My daughters, wives, lovers, and friends.
An endless flood of memories of why i had loved women in the first place.
But mostly they seemed like sisters.
Like two that had seen each other love and lost,
saw the same parents parents pass,
given and taken grief from one another.
They walked like sentinels that had barely gained breath.
Still clinging to the little graceful femininity they possessed.
I loved them for all of that and more.
I wanted to extend my reach from Heaven and
wrap them in my releasing embrace.
To be selfish and have them with me.
For I miss them as my own.

Sanctuary

A lack of sleep burns me to ashes.
Buries and burns my calm demeanor.
I'm not only looking for rest,
I'm looking for an answer.
It really seems like I sleep amongst many,
letting them recount to me their muted chorus.
Answers I am seeking are self contrived confusion,

A blind folded child trying to grasp his closest playmate.

I think upon the time when I considered myself a gilded youth,
teaming with a naivety and ego seldom seen before.
Of dreaming of distant forests and towering trees and eager bodies.
Of being the greatest conjurer, the ultimate creator of my reality.
It seems like I slept amongst many mans definitions of me,
without them uttering one word.
So silly it seems,
the night time world so sweet in her tender whispers only to be insulted by Her.
To let her dissonant cadence disrupt a perfect sanctuary.
So holy unto itself that it bears the right to be called that.
Sometimes, at times, I think, maybe, it has lost its sanctity.
It could have been required of ancient man to have a time
to visit their own personal hell.
To live amongst the fieriest bowels of themselves.
That we need a time to paint our own torture.
Sounds too cynical, too modern maybe in that we
drown in constant beeps and rings, buzzers and whizzes!
That we are allowing ourselves to be defined by masses the suffer.
That we all must suffer.
That the "connection" dictates what goes on in our own minds.
I know the sleep will come someday.
Caressing me like she did many life times ago.
When I actually knew what tired meant.
When I actually was a man,
Blessed be God for here comes the aurora.