In the Midnight of the Soul Olympics Not awake yet not asleep Schrödinger’s paradox aware, but not My mind sprints past the old mills of West Warwick once imagined castles, deserted by traitor kings, Held fast by kitchen wenches and stable boys With a Boleyn or two in the turrets Then dashes down the forest road to Northwood Reciting lines and barefoot leaping over pine needled paths Long hair flying freak freewheeling Watching for that brown-eyed man to swing from a tree, laughing Next crowds of Manhattans of many Manhattans Pulsing, pushing and yet welcoming home Crushed in humanity part of throbbing life Spins into Arcadia to the rocks and the sea the waiting winds the chapel that sleeps by the waves the dream time The minds Olympics on wakeful nights kaleidoscope collage of time place people loves all jumbled blended into just one me
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 02:39:22 +0000
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