Untitled

the world turns on its lathe
and we are swept though as chips on the whim
our sharp edges go onward
toward choice of breaking the mold—or passing wordless—yet burnt through action
going up or down (and around)
the words burn and define a shape and yet we cry, “that wasn’t me!”
whisper again—
and again—
and once more!
exist.
and burn bright passion in the mind.
and restless sense that it WAS you—
echoing—
echoing all along