Will O' the Whisp
It is a strange magnetic talent- of mine
These days-
That I walk- dry
As dust
Not unlike parchment without pen,
A lifeless wooden wren,
Or the fallen winter leaves
Tossed singularly
Down the streets
And through the Alleys
Alas
Mind- spun to any plotted course
On an iron pointed compass
Feet- set upon the concrete
Following the road where it goes
Drifting any way the wind blows
Turning and turning
- Only
To turn once more
And find myself
In the clouds
Staring at your door
The soft ghost of your bed
Filling my head.
Unspoken or said -I suppose
Any Lover knows
The Body
-Only follows
Where the will
Of the Heart goes
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