White and Gold

The white and gold sing. The light behind them spilling onto my knees as I observe a silence. Watch the water pour upon your head. Watch your lips change. Not smile. Just change. It is funny. How my heart is still. How it catches me up at 3am then leaves me in peace. To gather the pieces. To gather the pieces. To dull the purple in my foot. The red and yellow. So much time gone. I disappeared amidst it. Not quite eroded. Not quite gone. And I am tired. So very tired. But soon. Very soon. Maybe the white and gold will be in my fingers. Fingers bent and crooked from rust. St Peter will come. Take my hand and pour cool water over my hair. My temples. And the familiar smell. The familiar ooze. The dust. The powder. Will be left aside. For a short time. For a moment. I fill myself up with white and gold. Gather as much light as I can to move me from this seat. I will trust myself. I will trust myself. Like Simon Peter. I will fish inside. For the pieces left. The pieces left. Are they the light that fall upon my knees. White and Gold. Quietly singing. Remembering my voice.