Bubbles

In my mind are balls of sound,
little things that spin round and round,
they turn and fold and drip down –
splashing echoes across the ground –
they weave and run,
through my fingertips,
take on volume with noises aloud,
sounds I can feel and taste,
sounds I have seen and found,
sounds that skip across the ground,
sounds I have held round the waist.

In my mind are balls of sound,
little things that spin round and round,
and every ball or bubble of sound,
is filled with pictures of naked skin,
sweetly sapping the hair on my neck,
pulling me closer, holding me near,
knuckling me further to the ground,
flourescent discounted talking listening,
reaching the peak beyond where I expect,
kneeling and whispering cheap lotus to my ear,
blessing me with kisses on sacred holy ground,
and I wonder what I have found,
and what holds me spellbound,
as I listen to the bubbles,
and the sound that spins round and round.

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Posted on April 3, 2013, in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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