8:59 PM
When Restitution's weary legs are bowed, and Superstition's wounded whispers call,
the blank checks that Mercy writes are uncashed, ten grizzly bears are growling in my hall.
Here all the polar opposites attract: becomes Gray: playing, spinning yin and yang
between the Dusk and breaking light of Day:
Here I try but cannot tell the change slips.
In Poetry, I'll hide from icy winds which blow through my thin coat and leave a chill.
I'll find the summertime inside my mind and reconnect with Dreams of my Free Will.
