I choreograph myself to the situation,
creating maps of inner and outer worlds,
pentagrams, circles, compact shapes,
houses of pure air for the mind to breathe in.
Freethinkers and the morally bankrupt are welcome.
No painful extractions from the mind.
I softly go behind, touching the deepness,
the unknown factor
where demons flee the details, the yellow fog.
Like a battery I work off the positive and the negative,
every shade holds a secret that is pivotal to life.
A dominion of ages,
listening to dark and light tones,
easing down the slave lake of life.
I brush away cobwebs from the corners of thoughts,
stored in cryogenic rooms at the base of memory.
Wade in my maternal peace,
paint the joys and the pains,
use the spaces in my sphere;
make my body pregnant with colour.
Let the colours bleed, it’s my wish,
as every tint is vast and beautiful,
every line infinite,
climbing frames, leading upwards and outwards.
Where I exist, freedom has a place to grow,
free of a hunched back
to flow brightly back to the source, the light.