The Writers' Circle

Like thoughts to warm a chilled reflection
As tear stained prayers on papers past,
Do haunt to papers present.

Were I to parallel perfection 
As a lettered cleaning crescent.

Two wing tips touch
Like paper pen and hand,
As soft and chaste as rain that falls,
To dampen leaves beneath a barren tree.

Were I the son the prophet his;
My bleached black bones
To  dust to turn again.

As in a heavenly lust 
I render unto god the dust.