There Is A Place Where Words Are

This Torture Why Should We Tell You Our Love Stories When You Spill Them Together Like Blood In The Dirt? Love Is A Pearl Lost On The Ocean Floor, Or A Fire We Can’t See, But How Does Saying That Push Us Through The Top Of The Head Into The Light Above The Head? Love Is Not An Iron Pot, So This Boiling Energy Won’t Help. Soul, Heart, Self. Beyond And Within Those Is One Saying, How Long Before I’m Free Of This Torture!

Poems Reach Up Like Spindrift And The Edge Of Driftwood Along The Beach, Wanting! They Derive From A Slow And Powerful Root That We Can’t See. Stop The Words Now. Open The Window In The Center Of Your Chest, And Let The Spirits Fly In And Out.

Dance, When You're Broken Open. Dance, If You've Torn The Bandage Off. Dance In The Middle Of The Fighting. Dance In Your Blood. Dance When You're Perfectly Free.

That's How You Came Here, Like A Star Without A Name. Move Across The Night Sky With Those Anonymous Lights.

Moonlight Floods The Whole Sky From Horizon To Horizon; How Much It Can Fill Your Room Depends On Its Windows.