Drops of gold
In the stream
Silver sold
To my dream

Drops of blood
In the flood
In motion
Emotion.

Grey temple
Fine apple
Delusion
Illusion

Pure bubbles
Six shuttles
To the door
Of my moor

Raw and rare
Disrobed to
The white air
And for you.

As the rhyme
Plays with time
Pushed aside
Kept inside

Vanishes
Turned into
A taboo
For the night.

I lay there
By the pool
Whilst my sphere
Is spooling

Speeding up
Round and round
Filling up
The pale pond.

As I freeze
The soft breeze
Of the thought
I have fought!

August 1, 2014