Breaking Point

Where do I touch
you in dark? You don't have
the skin, like water.

The echoes were dying
in the stillness of nightbirds.
Do you call it tranquility?

Unhinged, a sharp cry
moves around a Michelangelo,
unbelieving in last judgement.

Catching of the falling
leaves in autumn, reminds
you of impermanence. Yet I
will explore eternity.

The call returns. Time
to collect the bowls. Roses
are dead at altar.
You cannot stitch the wounds.

I will again
measure my height.