Every woman, lunar child.

One week in four I slip into daydream,
The real is veiled; a world is inside me.
An ebb and flow of physicality
With forced moments of dull lucidity,
Brought into being as aches pass through my frame.
And then reality is in my grasp,
But once I’m there I lose touch with myself.
The mystery of my transcendant time
Ends with frustration and a sense of loss,
When I recall my absence from myself
As I take part in the creative act.
My fleshly self defeats the higher part.

A quiet time when all the world stands still;
My womb a universe against my will.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPod