A Dance away from the
unquestionable answer.
hewn up in strings of moving space,
save a new question for a new day.

In all the toque of talk,
with what whatever will be.
Sheered off in all the spin.

Passages of statements,
towering columns of words.
Totter and teeter in unsure equilibrium,
all coded in meander messages.

In all the toque of talk,
with what whatever will be.
Sheered off in all the spin.

With purity or clarity;
only victory can win.

Today, today it is always today.
Never leaving my side nor allowing
my lids to rest their tension.
To hide from the always now,
the unrequited  thoughts.
Beliefs I never knew I had.
Within the seasons of the self,
standing in the shadow of my mind.

Away, away, please do not stay.
Give me tomorrow or yesterday,
Images and dreams of greater or new.
Visions of joy, structures of wax.
To follow the mind of the season.
Give me fact-free fantasy's
folly and fancies.

But:
today,today it's always today!
Always here to keep tomorrow away.

There's something swimming down there.
Unseen, subcutaneous under layer and layer.
Malice in that silence,
venom in that stare.
laying in wait, to strike, break,split tear.

Peace as a siloullusion of the swelling act.
Waiting on reality's organic nascent,
unresolved affair.

Whatever it is that swims waiting for a chance,
in your terror askance.
Will soon break on out, too real for fiction:
to swallow you whole in it's gruesome glory.

The body is dead,
but the brain just has yet to notice.
It dreams, thinks, and  reminisces.
Visions of unending life,
Self-serving endeavours.
So fantasy deep, it doesn't notice
the change in the weather.

Nor the twist of time,
cause's or causality.
Just dreams onward;
inner centred.
the most unenlightened  form of mind
masticated meditation.
Just thinking onward,
moving casually
into fatality

If we keep walking the same old way.
Not facing the future as we walk away.

In to a past that becomes the next day.
Following the path of a
Sunless may.

The sky will start turning a dangerous grey.
Bringing on storms to wash the many away.

I'll bring a question for your ears to touch.
How could you trust the
I's of much?

One more sunset;
what does it matter?
There n' gone,
unborn reborn.
Over and over.
Without a lick of sense,
or the luck of a four leaf clover.