moi

Cycles of love,
cycles of hate,
Of sweet tender trust;
you spun me around and round,
on tops of flaming gold.
Rolling heads, twinkling eyes
and before we winked,
the storm had passed;
my boat was aground,
with a bruised crab shell,
and a not so empty net.


Whoa whoa, what am I doing here?? For me, poems are strictly outbursts into unknown territories that are marked by vicious and hungry canines; I need to get back to the familiar rigidity of soothing and very structured prose before its too late! Sometimes stifling an idea or two is required for my general well being!