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Flit and Spin
By Brett Somers


Mind sticking round and round.
Loneliness is that sticking sound.
No pillows of comfort
Nor footstep, firm ground.
Why does my loneliness stick?
My ears make me sick.
Meddlesome they play.
Which way, which way.
Decisively I sway.

Meadows sit and chirp.
Flit and mock.
How I sit and flit.
Flit and rock.
Flit and rock.
Mind sticking round and round
Rubbing stones.
This wonderous wanderlust.
Pondering thus.

A penchant to find
This time in mine.
A vast equator,
balanced incubator.
So as such I sit.
I flit a bit.
Wander and wonder.
I sit.
So weary of not finding it.

I search.
So desperately to find.
My divine –
my craft of soul.
My purposed whole.
So I sit and flit.
Unable to accept it.

My dearest friend,
I write to you.
How did this end?
Or tilted on an axis It spins.
Time It appends.
So alive then am I.
To flit and spin.
Flit and spin.
So I’ll find my axis.
Spin without end.

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