Poems from BiaMor
When wood creaks
And smells of incense,
Your eye widens and leaks...
Your heart stops and listens.
The dark is horizontal;
Too...
Your hands. Soft and strong and able.
Good technique and control of mechanism.
Long, lean fingers with callused tips. Sense stolen by steel...
I am at war with myself
Most of the time.
I fail against myself
Though the mind is mine.
I crawl home every morning,
Dragging my heart away...