The Mesmerist would be captivating,
even without the swingety-swinging watch,
or the rhythm,
steadily floating down,
steadily floating down,
heading towards the sweet safe soft spot
between somnia and silence.
The Mesmerist would be captivating
even without the repetition,
the sugarfloss repetition
that lends ornamentation
to her enrapturating glance.
The Mesrmerist would be captivating
without the repetition,
that gentle glide down,
ever-down,
softly down,
down,
away from all of this,
away from all of that,
into the hotly embracing sunbeam
of her glance.
Those holding tight to her words
can dance if they could never dance,
can smile if they don’t smile,
can let it all fade away.
They can lift great weights,
dream Brobdingnagian dreams,
follow invisible signs,
read certain unwritten maps.
The Mesmerist might be beautiful;
who would know?
Who could look past those bright cat’s-pupil eyes,
and that wavelength-catching voice,
lifting you gently down,
farther down,
deeper down,
carefully down,
and the watch
slow-sashaying forth and forth,
is no talisman,
you could look away if
you wanted,
but that’s precisely it,
why look away
when you could look in,
be more
yourself, not less,
swing down,
down,
down,
and down,
down
and down,
and you gentle out
and the Mesmerist
smiles with you,
your smile growing her smile,
it doesn’t matter what she looks like,
you swing down%,
and in that radiance,
there’s nothing but gleam.
