Is the belief in which I exist,
None the ways explain the chirping birds,
Or the fluttering butterflies that persist,
In my gut, the pit of my navel,
To haunt every personal thought of thee,
Rings like a bell, like a metal ladle,
In a metal vessel rotating free,
My head, the more stable reference frame,
And the cacophony, my ripply thought stream,
You, the pebbles, the one to blame,
The smooth round ones with a wicked gleam,
Clouds the eye, constricts the flow,
To the vast sea,still steady, but slow.
No comments:
Post a Comment