I don’t spin to do fancy tricks,
I don’t spin to be the best,
I spin my ropes and spheres and sticks,
To abide the tide within my chest.
I don’t spin to be known as cool,
I don’t spin for fame or glory,
I spin for king as well as fool,
to share the essence of my story.
I don’t spin just to teach,
I don’t spin to perform,
I spin to reach,
I spin to grow, to surrender and transform,
I spin to expand the shapes that grow,
In the corners of my mind,
To lead them in an ancient dance,
Older than mankind.
I spin like tiny molecules,
Like giant planets round the sun,
I spin for the unseen force between,
That gathers us and makes us one.
I spin during the night,
I spin during the day,
I spin like everything in sight,
Because I know no other way…
no more a whole but tattered skin and bone,
a crimson trail does follow as I seek,
the haven I can truly call my home.
I live in hope and pray I’ll get there soon
yet know not I where journeys end will be
so walk I do whilst counting passing moons
imprisoned by existence, never free.
Perhaps one day our fated paths may meet
and home we’ll find within our lonely hearts
then off the crimson path we’d take a seat
to rest before our journey truly starts.
If walk I must then that’s just what I’ll do,
until I find a home, a home with you.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
There’s a smell of stale fear that’s reeking from our skins.
The drinking never stops because the drinks absolve our sins.
We sit and grow our roots into the floor.
But what are we waiting for?