Passion and Wanton

Loosed, kicked, into the dream of spinning
it's launched like a fowl. It climbs the stairs of lift and down,
and after the gallop it tramples the bramble peat.
Whatever it is, this dream, it is joy, but too bitter.
It is disgrace. It is sown, gathered, published and declared,
until the need for another disgrace is the only answer left.

It is dreamed—it is disgraced. It is joy,
but too bitter. It is a comfort
and a song you sing. Maybe a desire that is left and surrounded
by darkness and a heartless soul.
But no, it is dreamed, disgraced, with social unnecessity—
but a need when the singular circle shows tonight.

There is a treason in believing that this is the best
of what is yet to happen, good or evil, and it must be evil
with this discomfort. And in hands
held high: the gloaming, the wine, the reckoning,
the blood. The cup overflows,
and with a burst, there is dawn—stop spinning.