Be Me

for just an hour,
while twilight titillates the wolves
and dusk drops the last of her clothes
to bare her blackened soul,
for just an hour,
step inside my mind,
and tell me what you see,
why I am what I am,
why I cannot be me;

does a hot wind blow
over desert dunes,
that my thoughts come to me
coarse, gravelly,
peppered with bitter sand,
is there a red eyed moon,
floating in the embossed darkness,
one that sighs quietly,
between beats of the goatskin drum;

are the days arranged like books,
from ceiling to floor,
with unlit spaces where
they were never returned,
ripped pages
with your name on them,
in bundles, gathering dust
by the lonely archways;

for just an hour,
wander through the back roads,
where I cannot go,
you know, I once sneaked out
through a green-tongued tunnel,
through time screaming
in timeless purgatory,
to a lake in the middle of a willow glade,
the colour of a sky in prayer,
the taste of ice in sin;

go and bathe in those waters,
slip your hand over its open lips,
the waters that healed my hope,
tell me in an hour,
as dusk pirouettes to dawn,
as the doors shut out the khamsin,
and rustling pages begin to
erase the calligraphed pain,
word by word by word,

tell me what I cannot know,
tell me what it does not show,
tell me are the tears wet,
tell me what I should feel,
tell me is it all real?