I live beneath a spiral chain,
a silver flow, associating
The best of me, the worst of me
won’t let me sleep,
assaults what was my fontanelle,
hurling endless arrows,
sometimes hammer blows.
Voracious, it would plait me
in perpetual prolixity.
I struggled to untangle braids of lexicon,
loquacity; a glossolalic battle
taking place inside my very own
An endless source of joy and pain,
my efforts to communicate precisely
brought astonishment and judgement
to the faces of the many
deaf to shiny silver rhapsodies.
In time I found a cushion, big and plump,
on which to sit beneath the spiral,
at purple fruits of rare and handsome beauty.
From enemy to confidante,
therapy to free the self of all the twists and turns
of words that clamoured at me constantly.
The cushion’s known as poetry,
and I’m in love, enveloped
in my helicoidal symphonies.