from Ghost Blueprints

5

Will you not be a letter in flight, a bird,
long years morphing into sequences of gold?

Will you not be a pool unruffled by the suffering stone,
unmoved by the face that must stare to rival its own?

Will you not be a flowering spear, garden aroused
from slumber by sound, a rain-filled and viable day?

Will you not be the measure of shorn-away years multiplied
by the net of some larger ardor, unfathomable by the eye?

Will you not be the lever, the door, the moon; gauntlet
unthrown, unraveled thread that will lead to its source?

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