Whirlpool

Long Grass tickles at my ankles
In fields of long forgotten glances
And riches of claytons princes

You cooked up illusion and I've asked for seconds
To every new temptation becons
Sleep
Full bodied and unadulterated
And you're so tired but you have to stay awake

Be Awake

to look under the stones of yourself
and ask why for the children of your emotions;
did you lead us into empty crusades?
The weapons were drawn and hot.
And we're taken back, like a lapping wave
sucking existance back into the sea
and crashing everytime a little less
a little less
and lesser still


And back again.
I am becoming weaker
Pillars crumbing off my hands
like ancient civilisations in ruin
are paraded for the tourists
to snap and clinch a piece of
what they make of history.

Imaginings of what used to be there
Are so much grander than what ever was.

And so we return to illusion
And the cycle to which i stand within
and feel its tenticles wrap my wrists up behind my back
and lead me in circles

until i am a whirlpool
placed in inconvenient spots
to draw us in.