take my hand and climb with me…

one hundred and fifty five degrees: ‘go, spin me around…’

Under The Folding Branches ~ The Veils

one hundred and fifty five

You were, oxygen. So, integral. Love’s, light lungs. Breathing. Bellows, fuel. Fan, to flames. Twin towers, stretched. And burning.

But. Time’s taken, chunks. Memory, metered. Dissolves. Caustic, acid. Bleaching, heat. From skin. And limbs. Blooddrum, beating. Pure. And free.

I’ve come, to forget: you.



For I loved you once, didn’t I?

5 comments on “one hundred and fifty five degrees: ‘go, spin me around…’

  1. Torrun
    March 5, 2013

    I just looovvvvvveeeee your mystical bokeh-esque pictures. They are so surreal after a point!

    • circulartree
      March 5, 2013

      Ah, thank you SO much Torrun. I’m really enjoying playing with these images but worry sometimes that they’re a bit too conceptual and strange so your comment is a beautiful well-spring of encouragement. Hope all is well in your beautiful poetic vistas. Love and deep appreciation from the Overberg, Bx

      • Torrun
        March 5, 2013

        The thing is even though they hold a deep personal conceptual idea for you, I am able to steal my own eccentric joy from them 🙂 And yes, I try and keep at poesy even with my studies. Hectic work, but fun at the end I guess. Godspeed 🙂

      • circulartree
        March 7, 2013

        Wise words, Torrun. And thank you… There is no stealing of joy, these images are an invitation to others to dive in deep and play. Which is *exactly* what you’ve done – I’m both honoured and overjoyed! Keep writing as such as time and studies allow – it’s a gift that shines a beautiful light into the world. May your heart (and pen) be blessed, ever day of your life. Bx

  2. seanbidd
    March 6, 2013

    At first a glance, then a pondering look, I found myself a dreamer once more, lost in the mythology, and tales of your imagery, caught listening to the moment’s captured universe.

    La Nuit, she stands, as birds of darkness gather. Streaming into the light, above a sand hill player. Low walls, seat. Where the theatre of the living, whiles upon soft near grass. Deep to each, in stories. Which she tells, to time. Carried on, the dark birds. Wings afar, the distances. To lands, beyond. Light’s mountains, call her stream. Her conciseness, her legends’ tales…

    Got a little lost in the above photograph, as it’s art that speaks, and has different voices, for different listeners and readers… I wonder how many stories it holds.

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This entry was posted on March 4, 2013 by in Summer and tagged , , , , , , .


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