In my most quiet of moments
I stir my heart.
The mixture it generates swells
Throughout my extremities coalescing
In this page, another finger painted start.
It contradicts that which is allways of mind.
It conjures up something yet defined.
Splattered words on the kettle’s crest
They fill the void with more or less.
Tinkering on a balance beam,
The right words jostle to be redeemed.

I could say they were me – my own gentle art -
But are they? Or are they just mine to take the part?
For they come from where I cannot see
And sometimes they go to where I cannot be.
They drive me around in an uncovered plea
Straight up to the heart of me.
Yet it is here in these pages that I belong
Found between the lines – how could I be wrong?
If I were to dismantle my heart here before your eyes
Would you understand its dissected replies?
I think I surely would if I thought that you could
Trace the lines inside of me – all the way to understood.

In this one place I take leave of myself
Pulling out everything from off the shelf.
Scattered on the floor – oh what is left?
With my hand I pick up another piece of myself.
Placing it here, covertly from right to left.
Could you ever know of such a scattered line?
If you could it would be the real me defined.
Yes, in my most quiet of moments
I stir my heart.
In the mix it regenerates me -
The real me -
**eeS oT uoY roF