On the swimming fields of sand where angels march
encased in celebratory smiles, shall our souls meet
blue fingered and wearing sun-tans, beneath a solitary Larch;
its needles made of poisonous touch.
Notebooks flicker with wind sweeping looks, my eyes grey grow tired
of this walk,
of this confusion,
of play and of meander.

Sometimes i wish my soul would cease with this seek
and rest happily in the place where fade begins.
But these thoughts are simply insecurity,
or lack of health,
or both.
Tis thunder in which i really search, and river swim in which i dive,
but at my own pace, and in my own time.

Bowie says 'I know when to go out, i know when to stay in. Get things done'.
This i am learning, or at least aiming towards, with a strive.
And when this mirror ends its hooray of turning leather,
and the acid drops, and stops, its vibrant violent march,
i will return to quiet
and begin with renewed reason,
a solitude of focus,
and i shall wear a wide brimmed hat,
with my hair cut beneath however i like.

But until then let me play play and play....