Her face twists into a veil
she, an empath, a clairvoyant too
catching trails of thought
feels her way into a room.
The clambering tambourine
of your disquieted mind is too strong
buffering as best she can
adipose tissue, a painted fan
She sees a hole which you stuff with people places and things
braces herself, careful not to be sucked right in
knowing full well it is meant to be there
Mind races, pulse quickens, you're scared.
Part the curtains or sea, which can never stay still
The hole's not broken don't fix it, your conduit wails.
Each soul's not perfect, each egg has a crack
The hole is really a treasure map.
Instead of yearning, you might sit and pray
or if that's not your bag list ten good things you ate today
unimportant the method, you bring it forth
the hole is there to guide you, like a tuning fork.
A.S. 4/10/2011
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