I trace lines in my palm

the whorls of my fingertips

become magnetized
The sway of concentric circles

Within circles within circles
The geometry of endlessness

always soothing and hypnotic

casts its irrecoverable spell

I flower with fractal certainty
Here is where I seek the for

in an ever: that deep dark

longing for perduration

the pluvial plunder in greyed air
But I don’t have the capacity

to endure indefinitely, the salt

in my blood sometimes boils
to glass when your lightning

strikes, and a thundering in

my fulgurite veins shatters

Serenity’s magical illusions
Bits of me paint the night

in a burst of champagne light

when these sands ignite, and the

desert oasis’ silent caravan glides

by majestically, leaving me behind.





2 Comments Add yours

  1. Fascinating read Lori! “Whorls” a wonderful word, I don’t think I’ve ever seen used correctly until today.

    1. ccthinks says:


      Thank you so much for the love.
      You are very kind. I am taking time off again from Facebook.
      It’s kind of a sad place for me right now,
      but I am so happy to read your sweet comment here. xoxox

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