by Gideon Burton
I need the words to slow me, slow me down;
if only they could regulate the flow
and flux, this rivering desire that drowns
the sense of senses till it's all I know
and see, this sphere of lava that I tongue
and swallow, swallow into fissured thought
where musing's fusions press, compress, till sprung
into this webbing mesh of fiery knots
reknotted onto moorings anchored where
but where to settle this and these? Compare
the scrape of bone on slate, and if you dare,
then tell yourself that dreams are made of air.
Compose me, sonnet, nothing's tethered sure.
The animals within begin to stir.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - wwarby
No. Kidding. This is the perfect description of life in my mind. Thanks. Breathing in, breathing out, writing down.
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