Poetry

“The moonlight is iridescent,” he said.
Quoting some 13th century mystic.

And I felt it.
The iridescence,
here on my cheek,
like a soft breath
from a ghost
who wants to be known.

Language that is pungent
smouldering in the air
like frankincense and myrrh,
arousing this long dormant
self.

So here I am
at Your door
knocking timidly
with my own
oblation of words.