by Larry Michael Pollick
This is where the desperate stitches begin to take hold -
In the wary edges of unproven cloth;
In the delicate fears of virtuous women,
In the fevered robes of noble soldiers.
She is perhaps so much more blasphemous than we should allow -
She finds her warmth in a sun far removed from our own -
She trims her plaintive lamps in a selfless pool of certain oil -
(She carries her purple well.)
I had no choice but to love this uncharted island dreamer song -
I was known at the gates of an alien Jerusalem,
the soulless destination of unprovable men;
I was a sailmaker searching for a comforting wind,
I was a proud man searching for everything but pride.
Now these are the hands that pull me back from myself,
Now this is the heart that forces its way into my own;
Now these are the eyes that see only the harbor,
Now this is the woman who moved Solomon's pen for him...