Spokes on the spinning wheel now roar with fire.
Who says stones don’t burn and not ever retire?
Wind cuts the craft when tossed with art in dust,
Every stroke on this wheel rhymes that holy gyre.
What has begun in the dark soul of an unknown,
Also ends among the witnesses of most known.
Spoke to spoke now not touch but push to move
The rim of our life, the realm of an unending love.
Light writes the sculpture, else nothing means
The desire we stand before and stare in love.
The Soul's Whisper 