In the night of your cocoon
There is a thread,
Which ties me to you.
Invisible, woven flecks of stardust;
A twinned twine of intangibility and fear.
Ancient yet alive.
In the night of your cocoon,
Filled with glowing, crimson stars,
Before even formcould bind you,
I sang you a song;
A primal hum, sans utterance.
I sang of a bond, a vow to keep.
A bond formed of bone and sinew and blood,
Red like the heart that keeps time.
There is a thread,
Which ties me to you,
Invisible, woven flecks of stardust.
Whim
On a whim,
The whim to pen
My self,
My form,
The whim to speak,
To be heard and seen,
As I was meant to be.
Every part of me, a word.
My tongue; heavy flicks of curses and croons,
All words.
My finger-tip tap; as light as light,
On your lower lip,
A word,
The shaken-loose skeins of soul,
Which stroke your skin,
All words.
Words to be eaten,
Tasted, savoured, swallowed.
But don’t let a single syllable slip,
For then I shall be lost,
My meaning will escape and the
Whim will be for nought.
