the rhythm of the iris-

It is a time of skeletal excursions…
they loom and sway
in the gray dance
that I choreograph in my mind.
Each one reaching out for the next
in a slumber of growth.
They always dance in circles.
Always different,
but constantly circles.

Sometimes there is a cathartic scream,
other times it is a soft moan.
They reaching for each other,
or touching the sky….
naked, bruised, and worn.

Soon enough,
time will dress each one.
All dancers with their sinuous garments.
still reaching,
but only at an attempt
to understand each other's beautiful gift.

I always laugh when they dance in the sun,
and sob when the lights are dimmed.
Moisturous hues are lapping arms of death
to say once more,
"Soon…soon, it will happen my friends!"
They all cry out in frustration and joy.
The circle is coming around my friends,
it is coming around.

---

     Lincoln Sward resides somewhere in the folds of everyone's brain. He is just a figment of the everyday man's or woman's imagination. It would be nice to say that he is the one who causes those flashes of brilliance within one's mind, but he is definitely not the Ego or the Id. What is the purpose of the Lincoln, and why has It sputtered out fragments of sentences and called it poetry, if that is even what you want to call it. I guess for the common good of mankind, or maybe to keep each and every one of us out of the Crisis Unit of the Psychiatric Ward, but what ever his reasons they are always for the perpetuation of the duality of life and the constant struggle between Good and Evil.