How a body and a soul yearns for rest,
the kind not tainted by dreams.
For the oars that run deep in and strong
wades past torrents not stemmed by silence.
The eyes, shut and darken by any means
blinds not to an incessant track, playing the tunes
of clamour
Absence of dance, is not the absence of choreography;
such, is the nature of movements
limp and lifeless thus strong impostors of calm
But only the soul understands what pins and needles
scatter under the smooth side of skin
Not pass any shortest mile of a clock's hand run
could the being still sustain from
tingles and bellows of an urge of old
or new, if that even matters
as though wind rises to the chest, all but trapped
and restless to burst free into the morning air
in a headless tumble too distinctly felt
wants free...
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