THE POWER.

Here we go round the circle once more,
Singing the song as we go.
Bittersweet berries stain the new skin,
Squished into ground under toes

Renew all the daisies,
With strokes of your pen.
Quills that shape, the mountains you make,
Black ink takes over the red.

Framed gilded artwork,
You move what you mount,
The power is a virtue you have.

Pictures that fly,
From walls as they cry,
And neighbors will see whats within you.

Tell them it's true,
It's from them and not you,
And all will be lost and forgotten.

Stories start small as a mole hill,
Growing while taking their shape,
Finger your finds, while pulling the blinds
And a gypsy is the bull at your gate.

Bring her to places unspoken,
Lost grip has her dancing in rain.
What do you do when it all ends,
The numbers she sees are on you.

Back to reality of life's work,
Back to your drudgery days.
Spell binder spins you a new yarn,
And lost is the magic we made.

Copyright (c) Robyn Whittaker. 2011.