The serpent in my blood 

Pulsates to rebalance

The tesserae I have gathered 

In patterns in the mosaic.

Its breath meanders

With the wail of the guitar,

Stirring weeping crosses,

Superposing their reflections 

As if with mirrors, ad infinitum.

Fading into the roots

Grasping the soil, anchoring, 

With a distant starburst above.

When the patterns reveal themselves, 

A purpose, vaster than yourself

And all you want is to weave.

But lights of delusion appear —

Scintillations of stars from vertigo —

When we question the revelation,

Our waiting, 

If it’s for silence.