Friends at the End of a Spinning Street

I pick a pocket just to feel

The stranger grope and softer steal.

When locks are legs and beds are bars,

I dream too deep with soiled stars

That twinkle-speak, “She rides again”.

“Your faithful foe and fearsome friend.”

I say “let danger lead me in,

And we'll pen and sword till Mighty ends.”

I drink the poison, she preps the pen

Followed by a graver sin.

She giggles at my broken nib,

As her tongue moves up and hands move in.

She strips my mind and dulls the ache

To hone and own what I create.

Blank pages are panicked blankets laid

To constrict and sever with no pay.

But beyond the empty, ashen shore,

My saviors stand: the kids of lore.

They dance so fast, they twirl and leap

And save my dormant mind from sleep.

While Lady Danger snips my laces,

I dream of centrifuge embraces

That separate my bad from good

And spin down grief, crushed underfoot.

When I pick pockets, friends fill my palms

With Lady Danger's whining psalms.

I crush the paper; it quenches me

And spurs a character release.

But soiled stars still twinkle-speak

And their brand of battle still repeats,

Dragging me into times of woe

Where I adore a periled throe.

But now I picture my friends, my kids,

Characters with built-in lids

From which I can no longer sup

And Lady Danger can't corrupt.

I defeat her now with inky graces

And perfect centrifuge embraces.