It is deep in the wee
When all should be still
But the clock ticks
And crickets sing

It is grave-silent
Only the smell of dark
Crown this night

But deep inside
A soul yearns
For a sight
For a glimpse
Of what makes this beautiful blossom

A soul yearns for contact
A soul years for a voice
Of what is she made of?
Rubies?
Soft petals of roses?
Pearls?

The soul longs for contact
The heart pounds on her every thought

Sadly… The mind can only paint
Of what she is made of
But the soul cannot contemplate
Who she really is

A soul yearns…