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.