Pictures In The Ceiling
pre 2000
Sometimes, if I look hard enough,
I can see pictures in the stucco of the ceiling.
I have found the outside world to be too rough,
too often,
and so I relish in the simple beauties that surround me.
Like pictures in the ceiling.
Once, as I lay in my bed sleeping wide-awake,
your image again permeated my thoughts.
And I could see the fluid grace of your gestures,
the passion in your eyes that is always so clear in your voice.
I could feel the warmth of your hand encircling mine,
and I could hear our hearts beating as one.
Silent tears soak my pillow.
You are so far.
And our love, only pictures in the ceiling.
There are words there,
inspiration, truth, resolution.
Childish shapes of circle suns
with stick straight-line rays,
hearts and flowers and images that make my soul feel young.
And I can trace your name through the rough surface,
and it stands so clear in my mind's eye.
And I may find myself asking, 'Can you see this too?'
And then, I may realize, that I have known all along that you do.
When I close my eyes, the images remain.
When you entered my life your essence was stamped upon my brain,
into my breath, into the beating of my heart,
and I am filled by you.
It is easy, when alone, to see us dancing, embracing.
Not so easy to believe, that this is for me.
But I know of faith, of trust in the unknown.
And now I also know of happiness,
and this is something I wish to own.
So I trust in our potential,
and I smile at how we have grown.
I know of some who also see pictures.
In the sky, slow clouds splitting the blue.
Or perhaps it is as simple as a canvas
laid out for the blind to view.
But I can see pictures in the ceiling,
because often I have lain here alone,
but now my mind never leaves me lonely,
it keeps you present,
even still,
and it reflects pictures in the ceiling,
that I am beginning to know so well.
Sleep doesn't come so easy,
when my heart is still trembling your name,
after words spoken silent,
as lovers passing through the rain.
And I trust that in my dreams I shall find you,
but really that isn't the same,
as picturing you beside me,
listening to the silence,
seeing the pictures in the ceiling,
whispering one another's name.
Sometimes, if I look hard enough,
I can see pictures in the stucco of the ceiling.
I have found the outside world to be too rough,
too often,
and so I relish in the simple beauties that surround me.
Like pictures in the ceiling.
Once, as I lay in my bed sleeping wide-awake,
your image again permeated my thoughts.
And I could see the fluid grace of your gestures,
the passion in your eyes that is always so clear in your voice.
I could feel the warmth of your hand encircling mine,
and I could hear our hearts beating as one.
Silent tears soak my pillow.
You are so far.
And our love, only pictures in the ceiling.
There are words there,
inspiration, truth, resolution.
Childish shapes of circle suns
with stick straight-line rays,
hearts and flowers and images that make my soul feel young.
And I can trace your name through the rough surface,
and it stands so clear in my mind's eye.
And I may find myself asking, 'Can you see this too?'
And then, I may realize, that I have known all along that you do.
When I close my eyes, the images remain.
When you entered my life your essence was stamped upon my brain,
into my breath, into the beating of my heart,
and I am filled by you.
It is easy, when alone, to see us dancing, embracing.
Not so easy to believe, that this is for me.
But I know of faith, of trust in the unknown.
And now I also know of happiness,
and this is something I wish to own.
So I trust in our potential,
and I smile at how we have grown.
I know of some who also see pictures.
In the sky, slow clouds splitting the blue.
Or perhaps it is as simple as a canvas
laid out for the blind to view.
But I can see pictures in the ceiling,
because often I have lain here alone,
but now my mind never leaves me lonely,
it keeps you present,
even still,
and it reflects pictures in the ceiling,
that I am beginning to know so well.
Sleep doesn't come so easy,
when my heart is still trembling your name,
after words spoken silent,
as lovers passing through the rain.
And I trust that in my dreams I shall find you,
but really that isn't the same,
as picturing you beside me,
listening to the silence,
seeing the pictures in the ceiling,
whispering one another's name.
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