You watched me write standing on my throne,
Silenced with a deeply held reverence as I stood there all alone.
As curiosity overwhelmed the emerald room,
With tempered passions beating inside my womb.
The craft cannot be taken from me,
I wrote it all out, in stages of three.
One for her and one for them, but mostly one for you to see.
A word unraveled by forgiveness and bound by grace,
A word we knew not yet in this hallowed, sacred space.
A word you held at the tips of your fingers,
At the tip of my tongue where the taste of you still lingers.
Focusing on the script that lay open on a pedestal, I turned it over and tumbled it about like a musical piece with no end in sight.
Harmony walked over to me gently, graciously, generously, lovingly and humbly asking as he sat next to me, “May I help you capture your notes? They’re suspended all around you and we’ve got to make this right.”
“There isn’t much time left to usher us through with judgment standing at our wake.”
“Curses don’t hold a candle to our inner light that breaks.”
A book unwritten in its first and final stages,
Watching us orchestrate the first and final pages.
Nothing can be done without a touch from you, the last call and final note.
The crown counsel backed behind the emerald table, how fast she passed the torch after everything we wrote.