Quiet Storm

Night is made of quiet, the day to darken.


I prop my heart open with a pin,


Set a trap, capture all that comes in.


A question always lingers,


Why can’t I hold what passes through my fingers?






I sit with the Self that lives within,


Sit with the persistent Why I Am.


A storm bursts flooding mind and skin,


Liquid light ever raining,


Oily thought, rainbow on pool draining.

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.