Fourth Movement

The life is a fire.

A red in the blood, boiling in the bile of my gut,

Or raging in the magma, and the hammer blows of my my heart.

A bright stike from the brain stabs out from a synapse, pinning an urge,

Cutting out a sliver from the heart.

The fire child, now born, drips its hot spit it my footsteps,

And prickles my hands with an itch.

Now I must become a servant to my spirit.

Open up the immortal depths, where the shallow rocks of consiousness are drowned in black.

The repose of sleep is an inviting state,

I'll coil in the warming helix of dreams.

To listen to that caged dolphin once again, bubbling words in the deep,

And slough away the flesh echo of my soul.