Pollen

We can’t tell it all, ever to sing, abandoned to a life of

secrets. It’s close and far, ever near to life, digging into

souls. Love was so rare a reality, and thus, a foreign

proposition. Our minds peek and peer, pregnant with

fantasy. It was once so negative, a sign, waging war. I

color a void—images and portraits of consequence;

where never is evergreen, fraught with illusion, kissing

wishes. Oh a phantom lives, mingling mania, steeped

in malaise. We swelter through thoughts, cautious

over souls, wretched over warmth. Panic comes and

goes, elevated with fancy, dancing a fantast slant. We

can’t tell it all, ever to sing, abandoned to a life of secrets.

Its opaque diamonds, shielding treasure, whisking

through chi. Such fills a soul, a vatic soul, a loving soul.

In heart, I hold it dear, painting smaze and mirrors.