a spiral looks in on itself, diving in
again and again on the waves of black,
wishing to be free, but craving to be held
by delicacy of the comfortable ladder.
in spite, we chose sanity over grace
in the grasps of the chief of the nightfall,
so blooded is the nightfall, breathing out
the specks on tired eyes about to eat
the famous morning clouds, sticky on
their chubby fingers with the spin't sugar.
falling down the well of yourself is
meant to get easier with the minutes as
you live in them, smile at them to show
that you care and notice their bell chime,
I've heard it gets smaller to swallow
those snakes in your middle,
we take the pearls of the years and set
them between facing mirrors, so that
a tiny morsel of our candy thunderhead
echo in some far away parallel loud
enough so we can notice it in the
breath of ourselves, surrendered to the
carven hills and valleys, replicating
a sweetness so ripe that it soaks through
all memory of an opposite.