Intricate decisions dissolve,
indecisions lead deeper into the labyrinth.
Poor passing facts long for the grace of accuracy,
When I am threadbare,
anything can feel like a blessing.
The sky opens like a funnel,
my mouth fills with all the things I pray for,
all my prayers, leaping, leaping into the lonely heavens.
Poetry on the run 
The labyrinth, the grace of accuracy, the blessing, the funnel, the leaping, the lonely heavens….
All this brings to mind a whirlwind of longing, and maybe even a chariot of fire, like the one our myths tell us that Elijah was swept heavenward in.
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