a foul of a soul

the rhytm is dancing slowly, yet massively. i tuck my soul down to the mother of earth. perhaps she might yearn the spell of thousands ode to the nature..

it is a bird, a white dove drips a feather flying beyond the pond..


who is it that sings the lullaby to thy wanderer? far away from the tea pot with silver spots. but the voices are too loud, the calls are too wild.

this is a poetry roar
when i shift my fingers to the inner
and a scream "denied, denied"


let my foul be buried away. for this is a muting silence with no pause, as i hear not my name.
[in the rain you still mummering, o, beauty]

*yk, 03042003