Time slashes at my roots with a silver scythe. With each turning and revolution of the world I grow a little older.

The sky is a grey shroud that hides the portals to heaven and hell. It’s opaque haze cannot be pierced or rent, not even by the cries of the abandoned and lost.

I am enamored by the night. It wraps its dark mantle around my shoulder and draws me in. It flings cold stars against an inky horizon where they pulsate and glow like a lovers earnest heart, and I lean into the sky-light, barefoot. I silently entreat the sky to impart it’s ancient secrets, but it never does.

I return to my empty bed and gaze at the ceiling, the sheets binding my ankles fast. The ceiling falls away in the darkness of my room, and I suddenly remember another life time. My fingers falter against the foreign landscape of my face, now no longer familiar. It has become the dark side of the moon. I close my eyes and breathe.

My nocturnal sojourn pulls me into a narrow corridor, a passage way that exists between awake and asleep; a place where the impossible is freed from its shackles and granted an unconditional pardon.

I like it here because each time I arrive it is a fresh new home coming.

He waits for me dressed in soft raiment and boots of Spanish leather. His face bears a sickle shaped scar just below his left eye, a scar I have memorized along with the shape of his brow and obsidian sloe eyes. It is here that love lives.

In my current waking life, I walk alone, and it is the night time that pulls me back to a time and place where life tattooed both hardship and joy on my skin with invisible ink.