The Gyre

I twist it into a fate-like stillness

Of pleasure

Without timing to

Bear the runt and the brunt

To the end of the nigh-er

The start of the gyre

The begin of the twisting

The start of the hell-driven looking

I will bend all to my fore

And look to the nor-th

And sew the seed not the lyre.

 

Copyright Bruce E Saunders 2016