Still Spinning
Each inspiration, a different star point
tenderly dipped in leaded glass
and allowed to dry.
Star skins unmolded birth devotion,
breed insurrection,
and are extremely edible
(though they never pass through you)
They go down sharp and imbed themselves
into your throat, your lungs, your very being.
Each point of inspiration a delicacy,
a mood swing in transit,
a feast.
Spread me this feast in a famine,
starving of long burnt out star shine and glass
I am filled up at each point of abandon,
glowing white heat and still spinning...
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