by Nick Gisburne
Descending on a platform, to the pool,
Her fingers grip the ropes of human hair.
The walls are thick with centuries of drool.
It crumbles, worthless. What she seeks is rare.
Though no one knows what put him in this place,
He somehow fell from Heaven, from the sky.
The frescoes show a bleak, bewildered face,
But legends answer nothing, never try.
The platform pauses. Nervous now, she waits.
His eyes are always first, the brightest blue.
Each meeting, face to face with God, creates
A moment, brief, a bond between the two.
He offers her the silver of his tears,
And she, with speed, with sadness, disappears.
