From beneath a shroud of fears,

I glimpse the face of God:

A cut of the moon for many years;

Brick-laden, a façade.

He constructs a million mirrors,

They all illustrate ‘the one’.

He weaves tall tales of vast frontiers…

But all threads come undone.

In his zippered dress of x’s and o’s,

He taught me how to feel.

The pinkest lips formed words morose:

“How do numbers make us real?”

Tattooed digits plead unsung,

Much like his suggestion.

One answer lay upon my tongue;

My question, and my weapon.

Indeed, the world has made a man

Quite little more than dust,

But wielding lighter battle plans

Dispels a breach of trust.

From beneath his shroud of fears,

The face of God that’s mine-

Eroded long by darkness,

His moonlight eyes resign.

The shadows’ bleeding, blackened,

Smears night across the clouds.

Silver sighing long has slackened,

From underneath the shroud.

Lucid voice, like solid slumber,

Croons the wounds that never heal:

“It is not a number,

But a heart that makes us real.”