Heavy, stinging, bloodshot eyes
looking out on a world –
woven with strands of fairground music.
The Waltzer swirling thoughts
violently inside a moss covered rock –
canals, crevasses of ice sided cliffs
impossible to climb. Hands and feet
keep slipping, falling deeper –
Picasso expressed abstract – unique among fools.
Foolish attempts to exhume all but
the very crystal of being –
a Goldfinch sings a tune of merriment
and the Dove looks me straight in my
heavy, stinging, bloodshot eye.
Until hope has gone – encased in his
thin black collar – like a capsule –
opened when found – by then it’s too late.