Spun Web of Gypsy Invitation
New colors embrace the memory of life’s soil
while looking at promises
that rush through our veins.
A tune is heard from our hearts'
circling places in time
where our eyes become the surface
of our souls,
greeting what we see floating
on the winds
of change.
Clearly visible as separate bodies
held on a spun web
of gypsy invitation,
why then do we only remember
the perfect peace
of how our minds meet.
You touch each breath I draw in
as if hunting down my despair
until it becomes as smoke
with leaving feet.
Before the stars were chiseled into an age
that held us captive,
sleep was where the light of the moon
played innocently.
Father Fate swirls, renames himself
with each breath I take,
keeping time for the promises
of true love
that still sing out
to you and me.
© 2011 Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
New colors embrace the memory of life’s soil
while looking at promises
that rush through our veins.
A tune is heard from our hearts'
circling places in time
where our eyes become the surface
of our souls,
greeting what we see floating
on the winds
of change.
Clearly visible as separate bodies
held on a spun web
of gypsy invitation,
why then do we only remember
the perfect peace
of how our minds meet.
You touch each breath I draw in
as if hunting down my despair
until it becomes as smoke
with leaving feet.
Before the stars were chiseled into an age
that held us captive,
sleep was where the light of the moon
played innocently.
Father Fate swirls, renames himself
with each breath I take,
keeping time for the promises
of true love
that still sing out
to you and me.
© 2011 Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
