His Cheshire Teeth

Running into the Roar,
Into the Cheshire teeth of some mad man
gesturing semantically
about some invented theory.

A baby-doll sits staring lifelessly alive in
the little red rocking chair built just for her.

Beyond the reach of this,
A dash of hair and reflections corner the windows.
Caught in the confines, the turbines of mental illusion.

Far away, to water, pulled away out of body
Drawn to pools, throwing pebbles.
As others feed off blackened coals.
Waves without sound
Lions parade.

A thought is relayed, that calms the man's clatter
I look at him with Qi.
Eyes open and close closets full of recognition.
God mighty music to the soul.

In another second, we both know that no drug is needed
for this insanity.
It is something as simple as this.

Sometimes music is not heard, but walks in your soul.
It can be a powerful tool in taming the savage.

©- 07-Sep-2007 Sonja J. Phinney