by Conrad Martin
I know of warmth—I myself
once in a golden field with the sun.
But now the cold night is a high abyss calling
and I am breathing
vertical blackness drawing
truth shining all knife I am singing
spine of hunger.
You are emptiness, and I fill you.
Silence: I speak you.
I love you, I who am also lost to being
but for a glint of ice at the edge of nothing.
Now I may love you completely,
who am like you in cold, still, blackness—
blessing beyond dread.
They say warmth and the field of sun, and I may not deny it,
but hope is a seed and time is nothing to the night.
The moon is cold.
I pray the sky.
Conrad Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy