Deep inside this age-worn granite cliff,

by faith and promise quarried,

burrow dreams which glisten slick

through dark rememberance,

awaiting time and place.

Rose-veined quartz and amethyst

reflect from fountain spray,

while twisting honeysuckle, fresia, rose,

design your bed, made soft by passion's silk,

and sweet anticipation.

Here, every tempting fruit prepares its juice

to drip from fingertip to tongue

on piquant path down chin and neck,

where eager lips may follow hungrily

in worship of the taste and feel of you.

This room is wholly yours,

no one could ever claim

what you alone have brought to life.

In every living stone is writ your name,

resounding echoes of a formless need.

A room, a haven in the lonely dark

for all of time, despite the consequence.

No lock or key to bind except your love.

No entrance save through truth and art.

A loyalty more real than any vow.

©Copyright 2001,2002 Grace Pedersen

Howling, pierced by icy wind, the lone wolf prowls on shadow paws. Exiled by laws, ancient and dead.

Cast out by ill formed, baseless dread. But does the beast contain its rage, locked in a cage, reviled and shunned, or dream of terror, death and blood?

© Gracie 2001