How many times
will the calm tumultuous breath
heap the sparkling tales
into the no-mouth of origin?
From extremity to extremity –
a sigh, a sainted emnity.
The liquid gold of form orchestrates
before the shifter joyfully,
yet it is all the same
in the womb of potentiality.
A right turn is a left turn,
and a left turn a right one;
for all is reconciled
past the soap bubble of the child
who rose and dreamt the fragments of his core.
O dearest acrobat of prickled love!
Thumos ran away,
and eros is beating himself into a pulp.
The rope is the quicksand of delusion,
and the rings blaze with dry ice instead of fire.
The Nocturnal Versifier 