Rustic this earth spins
and I ride fire stoked by wind.
Large I find my complexity
stroked by eyes again.
The weather has touched
my skin and I sleep unwell.
So the stories I have to tell
may indeed include hell.
Yet what have all shared
that our heart’s haven’t lived?
A night comes awhile and
once more asking patience give.
Eyes piercing me I’m complex
with anxieties misunderstood.
Still I battle on with fire behind
my eyes and passion under hood.
Travel fast like a sunbeam
in one place instaneous in thought
I’ll be dreaming of meaning
while I do a mundane job.
My life is full of mystery,
but I revel at the dear touch
of pen across paper so that
I’ll release this angst and such.
Giving diction whether fiction
I guess you’ll never really know.
Yet I sweep across the wind
in the images I feed I grow.
For the anthem of peace
driven down deep within
beyond my frail fragile skin
I have ransom of purpose begin.
Feel me urge you to feel
the bitter angst that I feel;
I battle it every day depression
with a happy face and zeal.
Speaking In Tongues 