Contact
My fingers are the contact beteen you and me;
Caressing your fingers through the mysterious web
Of silicon circuits, electronic nerve fibers,
Beckoning to me through a vast won'drous universe.
Your fingers, caressing mine, as they press out my passion
Onto small white keys, playing the melody of contact
Stroking your conscious thought from my desire to yours.
Heaven in the middle, God surrounding;
A concourse of angels, silent sentinels, stand observing
Approving? Not disparaging: my motives are pure.
Seeking understanding and encouragement
From a simple smile which slides through fingers trembling,
Asking nothing but awareness, reaching out through the darkness,
Touching your fingers, bringing the joy immmeasurable,
Wrapping around my soul, and you smile
And I smile.
2007-09-03
04:48:03
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9 answers
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asked by
Gma Joan
4
in
Poetry