Birds are balanced on branches, and I run along the rim

I am as graceful as I will ever be now, as observant as my mind’s eye

could ever hope to see, and the beating of my chest

tells me the yearning, no, The Yearning  is the seed

the flower the bee. Tears nurture the need. Love

is what will voluntarily bleed, and you

will recognize the bright line of your truth

the foolish raging of your youth and end

what sorrow steals from you. Whole

you are. Traveling upon the road of the minstrel

the phantom, the Fool. Can’t you see

you dwell on that rim with me? Cast out

banished to the fringes where all good rogues

eat free and sleep and dream.

Free and sleep and dream.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019