Spinning Wheel

The wheel is always turning, 

Yearning for that learning, 

Of a simplified recitation 

That would satisfy temptation. 

Elation—a feeling remote and bruised

True to these deals passed 

With loser always losing, 

Fueling confusion twisted ‘round letters

Etched in mind, parchment, stamped, addressed

Arrested in twirling self-doubt with no needed pity

Knitting these ideas— a handsome scarf made from dreams

And the seams of these things seem lean…

Beaming. 

Never there, never true, 

Through locks and chamber doors.

The shock would yet abhor a craft

Latched in unrefined temperance 

With no remembrance of your elements. 

So you sit again on rooted things, 

Ideas of life and breath and face.

Memories of unimportant states

That slightly crinkle your nose in haste. 

These currents are you in rawness.

You remember.

You mis-remember. 

The bitter Light is quelled.