Today the hours linger with me...
floating
unconcious semiotic thought
like automatic writing
it seems mischieveous
playful, pearlescent...
I rarely practice détente when time replaces intuition,
though D'ebutante'ce seems comfortably numb...
As we nip, tuck, and finally felch
another denouement...
smoke spirals green around
narcisse noir yearnings,
encircled by fire
from some ancient Earth
or maybe a truth lit by ancestors,
danced round long ago
I arched
as I will always be
sister...
Terpsichore...
There is here
then...
now...
then again,
this burning
coak which
illuminates
my life
has barely grazed
this languidly
yawning
reflection...
upon reflection...
and so it falls
blissfully back
in fields of dreams
boxed and bound
within my vessel
grounded rhythmic
satorial chamber
embracing it's hidden heather
passionante
enigma of all tomorrow’s
dawn

© Bri Whitney 2005