The Third Poem: The Room In Between

Water lilies, float on diagonals, tumbling
down the rustic fragile ladder
(those spaces in-between, those hollows of dreams)
into, a pond of flickering candlelights.
They lure you to sing (to sing), they lure you to jump (to jump).
Tears of white wax whirling, and slowly, slowly gliding
(until they embrace each other, to the point of 
agony, and drop) 
into, what seems to be 
a cloud -- warm, soft, and then void
of softness and warmth.
(Is that a cloud I am seeing?)

Do words give two different scents such
untranslatable longings, such 
inexplicable wounds?

There is nothing spoken, no sounds, and yet voices are
everywhere, filling and choking the disquiet air. 
There is no silence in the night.

Let me have your fingers from which the music flows,
those book pages dancing like scattering petals,
those blank canvases where moonlight weeps.
Allow me your thoughts where all poems are born.
Allow me your heart where the irises grow.

Is that the light in Paris, or the lamp softly leaning
against your cognac-hued wall?

Dust in the morning, 
drowning noises on the streets,
settling a painting undone, unfinished, uncomposed, uncompromised.

Until I see it no longer.