What sleeps and sleeps, while the quiet rages,
a beautiful hand lies still, her mind to dream into the night.
Oh tired minds, from deep within these tired cages,
the great drama is forgotten, silently into the dawn's new day.
An ordinary mask in pedestrian and mannered sight,
hides passion's delight in an ordinary way.
Voices of stone, heralds of the ancients await,
the joy of beauty I discover in one, answering the question.
Long prayers of envisionment, coincidence or fate,
recede away into her very mists and storied mysteries of light.
My only desire remains in the beautiful transgression,
to lay bare my muse into fantasies of flight.
Brian Francis Hudon
January 20, 2020
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