THEO RAY

You cannot touch my hand, nor my soul.
You cannot........because you will not.
You cannot touch my soul-it is a world alone,
that dwells not in stone.
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The chains, the early grave, the holy light of day.
Once sacred, once fed.....the sins of the father,
the lie sung by the troubadour's cry, the peasant
in the field-in strife with season's toil to abide,
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Shadow, in this silent hour-my soul in the field of dying flowers.
Seeking someones hand-vultures in the sky, this is the dying land,
this is where I stand.
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Don't listen to your neighbors,
crank up the music,
open all the windows;
who cares if they
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A soft white flower in the morn, covered by dew, sunlight wept upon it. Such a metaphor.....many a times I've passed....passing through this door, yes I've loved....loved before, captured by the racing heart, armour pierced by the light of love: so sharp. Loving again, lost in the valley, the palace afar, in the dark, looking like a crown, embroidered with stars, surrounded by a chorus of fireflies twitching with a spark.  Yes....I have loved before, and before that. Nothing left, but scars from the past, my soul calloused, in a world gone black, no light to last.....to last the long hours of solitude, cut by the thorns that cut through, must love always say: adieu. And when I see you I see but a dream, a dream of unity, of both you and I, embraced, one soul, one heart, one mind. Though you are not mine, I wish you were mine, in my arms, fevered by your kiss and fevered by your eyes, by the warmth of your breath, for you are composed in my heart, in a verse I write, in the violin of sonnets, of passion reborn, of life reborn, an ode to joy reborn, a rainbow casts its shine, with many colors worn.
In the violin of sonnets, of passion reborn,
the song of my heart, the heaven's light
adorn.....your beauty, a shooting star
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Let me write a poem about oblivion.
Let me write a poem of lust, debauchery,
and straying from the herd.
Let me write a poem about courtship,
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The ocean raged, the world was black, we danced like pagans at a mystical-feast. My eyes wept with blood.
The black bird sung, and has always
sung to me. I walk the cemetary, in
the warm breath of autumn. Dressed
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O India, the peasants that till your fields, how I love them so,
and the Yogis by the Ganges, and the sacred pyres that burn
ever bright.
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On the road to Damascus,
with a cross in my hand,
a crown made from barbwire,
acid rain fills the land.
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An ark filled with gold,
the heart is still,
but beating cold.
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I want to be immortal, near the swallowing light, embraced by Christ.
I want to be immortal, shaking off this cloak of skin and bone, entering
the unknown.
I want to be immortal, in this late autumn sun, where the gold chariot
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Twilight, the brahman baptized by India's sun. The universe is in the mind, religion is nothing, let the soul sing.

I cut my long hair and shaved my head. In the dark corner, drinking wine....desolation, I'm dressed in black......love is a song.....that once shined.
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Immortal wind, great chariot in the sky, the song of songs from the soul is nigh.
Rage from the heart, rage from the heart, to the world unsound, from the dust came the thorn filled-crown. Great chariot in the sky, great chariot in the sky......
The lonesome sea swallowed me, my eyes withdrawn from light, I raised the sail from that dream, in the ballad of the night.
Sweet chariot in the sky, sweet chariot in the sky.
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