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Twisting, churning,
grinding, clicking.
Turn, turn, turn.
Mechanical darling,
my love, sleeping beauty.
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The heart pumps away,
each spasm a tick tock closer to expiration.
Yes, the dead can be made to dance.
Look at their gyrating bodies whirling through time.
Through time, in time, as time.
A measurement of emptiness.
A motion with beginning and end,
suspended in emotion everlasting.
Experience.
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And when she gives
her last churn
of gear
and silence steals the show…
Oh no, Oh no!
What did I give
for just one dance?
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I sentenced my beloved
to death.
I in her
and
she in I.
And if I die before I wake
I know there’ll be
no soul to take.
|
No Lord to take it,
for I am the last,
that which sent its most cherished hurtling into the darkness
with a promise;
to lift deaths sleep
with a kiss…
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You and me
and the devil makes three,
go to sleep pretty baby.
A conspiracy
between motion
and stillness.
|
If you take on the burden,
I will come for you.
Together we will lift it.
But it will take a trick.
A trickster.
A third party.
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The motion is so soothing,
the twirling and moiling.
That great pulsing,
keeping time,
keeping the rhythm.
|
She is hard to rouse
from slumbers
greedy paw…
always there is the urge
to lie down with her.
Such opportunity.
If only we could
unlock the heart,
open the gateway…
|
 |
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Motion in time,
time in motion,
motion in time,
time in motion,
motion in time,
time in motion …
Emotion revealed
and the ferryman paid.
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