It is not in speechlessness
That odd things convelece
Some would jump
And have the pond gobble them up
As the storm arrives laughing
The jester is busy advancing
You would not see
Past the point of him
For his dance will fool
And you will see him
Spinning webs
Spinbing webs
In his dance of life
His dance of love
And death
And you came to ask
He looks you in the eyes
And touches your lips
You feel a purple mist
Where someone is.
