Good evening, old friend. How welcome
by Dan Brown
you are and your wide, white smile.
Cast down your silver cloak to
pale the trees; the rooftops; the
ticking time into insignificance,
that I might wrap myself in
its folds and flit
freely through the fields.
How strangely you sit tonight
- bloated and heavy-set in the
speckled inky pond. Are you quite sure you’re well?
The glassy eyes upon you must take their toll,
their weight and expectation a burden beyond
the million loaded whispers and
faces you bear.
Push and pull me to you,
for I will wait with you
until you turn to gold.