The Moor Poem by 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.
You cannot.............because you will not........
and to see you go-when all I know.......is
a place alone to cast my lot.
The shroud of numbness-I must confess,
to embrace solitude with nothingness.
I hold on to this pain, to the heartache,
wishing I were numb. The blackness to
come, no longer to shun, no longer one, watching myself bleed-
afar from the sun.
You cannot touch my hand. Crucified by love's comand,
though I willfully go like the shepherd's lamb......
Crucified--crucified, the lashings of the heart, to
wander the silent moor, through wind and hail from
the start, to that place on the hill,
the lonely-dark.