inner art journal

 

OUROBOROS

 

we write

talk

about this process,

comments chasing

a circle,

the cycle

you are

I read

listen

the action

pulling

into the shape

of what you do

I am-

no connections

only middle

to this roundness

and no outside;

we roll within

each poem we call

our art.

 

 

PARADOX

 

Perfection may move

in subtle shapes

of contradiction,

 

an ethereal dancer,

gloved fingers

pointing gracefully

 

into the stars,

while bare feet

step softly

 

onto the surface

just above hell.

You and I are

 

common souls-

we never learned

to dance.

 

 

WHAT LITTLE GIRLS DREAM

 

She knows music,

flowers her hair

with fallen petals,

wears silken colors

flowing downward,

iridescent circles

hiding her feet.

This girl speaks

of a dream-dancer;

a mirror speaks

her image

as she floats

back into walking.