I thought to meet at the start of day,
But my mind would not rest and was at play.
Tired and exhausted, my mind begins
Upon a journey much akin to a
Child's jump into a pond, who then swims
The length of it, breaking ripples, the way
A storm cuts a path through the white grey clouds,
And without warning reigns with tyranny,
With hail, with lightning, with shackled hounds
Of fury that never cease to bark. Flee
From me lest I should wound you to the soul;
For I fear that in my exhausted state
I shall have no sanity or control,
My love shall become a most dreaded hate.
The Spinning Top, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012
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