The sky, fading to familiar indigo,
gives me a chance to rest
in solitude. Noises, soft and unassuming,
add to the dream that my imagination needs.
Perhaps he shall come tonight;
the source of words and phrases
slick like virgin olive oil, blessed and smelling of faith.
My eyes try to focus
on the pinprick lights among the blanket above;
a sign that perhaps I am not the only one.
Some other eyes, locked in various places,
seek wisdom where there is none,
giving in to symbols created for the weak.
My eyes are on fire,
baptism, holy and defined,
as I witness the coming of my truth
in the form of a kiss I have yet to share.
He who has no name, come hither,
and remind me as to why I am here.
Speak with stone lips that move like a river
and soothe me with a balm.
I call him Prophet, a miracle man with hands that cure and kill -
my trust is placed in the arms
of a wielder of darkness with a blank face.
His hair, blacker than sin, shall caress and cover me; a secret
woven with the sky.
He shall touch me, immortal, upon my creased brow as I struggle
to make sense of this night.
His fingers, smelling of earth and sun, will bless me as I fall to my knees: I was not prepared.
Yet still, he smiles and fades away
as indigo gives way to robin's egg
and I return to the noise that I now better understand.
(copyright 2014 Kimberly B. Richardson)