How ancient is the memory, of a being such as thee?
Perhaps it's fate, that kept you here, to share of it with me.
But though you are a mighty thing, and regal as can be,
Your age is great, and if we wait,
I fear you'll fall on me.

Dancing,
            prancing,
                        spinning around,
Concern and sanity are nowhere to be found,
Spilling into music,
a river of eggs,
sound is reforming inside my head,
There's a hole in my skull,
my brain's leaking out,
stuffing it back in but I can't get out,
Turning and burning,
a feverish fright,
earning and yearning,
to last through the night.

Expansion of mind,
Implosion of self,
My consciousness is fragmented,
Crystal shards laying on the floor,
Scattered about,
Lost in the wash,
A river flowing beneath the soul.

Sparkling splendor deep dark round,
Pulling soft mind such sweet sound,
Gentle goddess silken brush soul,
Riven heart dove song made whole.

Sunset is a pretty thing, so bathed in mystery,
And yet it is the saddest thing, when drenched with memory,
Sodden sunset soak the tears,
That fall so endlessly,
Silent sunset take my hand, and bring me down with thee.

Twists and turns of phrase tumble loosely from my tongue,
In spirited spinning spirals of slipping song,
Strung and spun,
Like the waving whimsical white web of an eight legged dancer,
Diving and ducking,
Dreaming and draping,
Fine feathers of free floating feeling.

The texture of life is that of rough woven burlap,
With dreams of silk and fears of rags.