January Song

The invading spirit and guile of the sorceress, mystifying the early morning moments. Tired eyes, with hardly the energy for question. And the day suggests. It gazes into the tired eyes and it appeals. And after a walk on the outside, some kind of understanding occurs. The mistake is to find the same smells of the same people and the same time in the same city streets. It could all feel so eternal, if it were to be accepted on the face of it all. To be alone, is to be free, and to be free is to look freely at the day. And the day, seems to watch from some kind of distance, tempting and teasing in its tantalising way. And the day is not alone, and the day is not free. It stands over the picture available, it has its mind made up already, and it may look in a kind way and it may look in another way on its subjects. And memories stand defenceless prompting imagination to explode. I saw it in a dream that not everyone is in comfort. And anyway, there are changes and within the changes there are new people dancing, they sway to the rythmm of a new departure, they have each other, if they can't find anything else. So the city drums its beat to change. And change can hear the beating, and it stands apart. And I wonder if it really wants to know. I wonder if change really recognises the recent past, and if it has boundaries. Indeed does change know the reason for its being? And is its life in touch with life? Or is change just a wild and carefree thing that only believe in itself? And belief? Is it real? can it be enough for commitment? Can it be everything in the satisfaction of a mind, of a heart of a soul?