"Don't be such a worrywart,"
he said, sweeping
the dust from my eyes... their neutral
blue-grey scanning the headless
masses from the window. Our shoulders quake
through the curtain breeze of his chamber.
Stiff drinks in chamber
confinement, subdue the worrywart
in me and the quake
in my heart, sweeping
the soul of his headless
form... his sweat-soaked forehead, a pasty neutral.
My mind stays neutral
keeping my soul in its chamber
though it is wishing I were headless
and less of a worrywart
permitting the sweeping
and the destruction of the quake.
Its destructive quake
is in some sense neutral,
sweeping
away the chamber
of the worrywart,
leaving us heartfull and headless.
The headless
soul quake
wakes the worrywart
in you and I and all who are not neutral
except by nature. Drowning chamber
realities with decoration and sweeping.
I am sweeping
the dust from his headless
brow, in the confines of the chamber
never and always trembling beneath the quake
of two souls with gears stuck out of neutral
and minds screaming the voice of worrywart.
"We should try sweeping," the dust from the soul quake
leaving us headless and neutral;
the quake crumbling its chamber and the mind of the worrywart.
Denielle S. Rose - October 12, 2006
