the fantastic
element, the featured memory, longing, when freedom comes. scraping a pot
clean, washing silverware, scrubbing internal science. in days, at gates, raked
over coals—
the violence
inside, against its mirror, it yearns in some direction. a man as a pantomime.
a soul as a phantom: high rise pools, unwet wetness, as eager souls, creators
of silence—
to breed in
essence, life fire in skies, if to adore, losing semblance of insanity. a
bridge in mountains, facial distance, a mask when dreary. some person did those
mimics, a mic broken—
such pure silence.
if art was lengthened, if patience were widened, delicate pieces might form
their puzzle … while deliberate it became, accidental it lived, sweetness in
onions.
if erased, it must
be rewritten, maybe a different shade, analogy, mental flames at flurry. most
awakened, if not now than when, some cliché along those grounds—
sudden to see
clearer, a harbinger afar, another watching. it seems simpler than most picture
it. it screams at us, beguiles us, we imagine tides should meet with
resistance.
