Come home

Come home with me,
away to my moonlit island.
Let the storm wash you ashore
on to swamps of chimera
in ripples, of amaranthine visions
where we are one.

Come home with me
watch the lone tree from my windowpane
that gathers lightening shards in its boughs,
the only one on the expanse
that the tempest chose to descend
like your voice upon my ears tonight:
elegies from your throat
that often shatter my being
into a million stars at eventide.

Taste the wafture of my cold moaning wind
for it brings the Rain;
Heaven will descend
in cold orgasmic drops
on a waiting earth, so fragrant
The way your voice
with its trebles and opulence
rains on me infinite renderings.

Come home with me
see my slice of sky,
painted in your hues.
listen to the murmurs
of mango leaves and firefly wings.
Tread on my soil with naked feet
and dance to silence's overtures.

Touch me not, yet;
let us wallow in the stillness
and hold each other in gazes that overrun
while the universe unfolds
before our eyes.

and when you bid me farewell
I shall not weep
For I have your whispered lullabies
to listen to all night.
I always had you -
your voice, your thoughts,
your presence
In the breeze,
the swaying trees,
the wings of the heron
in every wave from the sea,
and every breath I breathed.

Picture: Marilyn Bouchard

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Written on the night of 29 April 2013 for Mikael Akerfeldt, the man himself.
In the hope that one day he might read it.