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We wonder what they are thinking.
At the break of morning,
as the sun swells beneath winter cloud,
the warmth of four lit candles, flickering, almost gone,
illuminating our dreams.
Casting shadows on our young faces.
We wonder with our eyes closed
with our hands in our hair
fingertips to our lips
considering silently our body and the skin,
the taste and the sound.
Here lies the provoking sensation,
our desire to know our own smiles
and to be explored from the stars inward.
To see where the blackness of the sky,
meets us - becomes us.
We let truth have its way with our pride,
stripping off our stone skins,
undoing our tightly buttoned cliches,
until we are naked enough to feel ourselves dying.
Awake; if only in our laughter.
A voice grows from the inside,
a quiver, that becomes a growl.
Like the black stripes at the circus,
like the alcoholic stooped beside his name,
We are no longer tolerant of bars.
And If we are not interested in plagiary,
how much can be said?
The winter clouds break,
and now we wonder only about what we are thinking.





Andrew Tipton