the fragrance writer

A heartbeat drums
out of the wilderness.
It’s beating from
the carriage of his heart
And burning with
his flame of tenderness:
An offering of incense,
like an art.

It’s proud, It’s ready,
It’s willing to fight
For her, and for her,
desperately!
But his parade, it passes
through the night
She claps her hands,
and cheers, reluctantly.

Her love exists
in simplicity.

For you, all of my thoughts
have found no space,
For here and there,
they come and go; they race.

Though hunger and though pride remain unshaken,
the thought of consequence
will not awaken

And I ask God,
“Why are you far away?”

As tongues lay pleasant
words full of deceit
for prey who never
realize their defeat.

But one day l will meet
Him, greater than me
and so I’ll meet
my own mortality.

I am a lover and
my fruit is plucked
Not long after my
flowers start to show.
I taste the pain after
life’s nectar’s sucked.
I hang around and
watch my buds regrow.

Embracing folly
in every sip of wine.

My laughter pops,
a crackle in the fire
Gone with the night,
a flame that slowly dies.
My burden, I am
forced and not for hire,
A slave who begs
the sunrise not to rise.

She was a seed that
someone threw away,
Now blooming proud
between the rock and sand.
Black velvet, wilting in
the heat of day,
She’s drawing deep for
any hope she can.

I am, myself,
a nomad, Bedouin
Awakened by the
perfume of a rose.
Through thorn and thistle,
hands are pressing in.  
I cannot help but
draw her, pull her close.

I’m nothing like the stars
in white and gold,
Nor do I have the steps
to climb so high.
Spinning, shining, burning
through the cold
Like angels flying
watching from the sky.

No, I am not
unlike an angel.

How will it finally feel
when I arise?
From here, to be
possessing all these lands
I’m openning my eyes.
The dream from You
within my reach.
Your calling leads my hands.