The cleansing of my heart
Has taken place on scented thought
In a night far too clear along the galaxies end
I reach for words like the spokes of a
Spiders web never once thinking how
Arbitrary the process becomes
When pen and paper are left to the
Whims of deed and chance
(I’d have better luck) elsewhere
So, forgive me as I reach again
Longing to merge my heart to the Words
Where worlds descend on laughter’s end
Pouring out onto an evenings coat
Like milk on silk over water’s flow
It’s as if the crescent moment of
A life’s sheer wake
Has left me no choice but to make
Endemic time all the more
Convincing to my choice
Of going home
To you
Like going home
On Christmas Day

© K. James Ribble