Years become symbols—the pitch of
the peek—in absence of the climber.
Daylight dreams, intimate agendas,
the coloring book is cultural.
Fitting into the universe is
difficult. Life is woodworks and oxygen.
Placed upon an island. Torn, sweet,
attentive indifference. The melodic harp.
Feelings flowing into rivers,
electric memories, literature matrimony.
Emotions. Making hives. Straggly
lines. Patient teal autumn.
Wherever they go, the love follows,
the essence grows crops.
The wishful mentality. The fertile
swamps. The kissing meadows.
The rooms are smoky. Incense is
wafting. We face another fiasco.
Pine seeps into spaces. Darkness is
sprouting lights.
A need for closure, ecstasy and oak
pledges.
Arranging internal furniture;
painting antique clocks; the vase is made of rhinestone.
Interior mirrors; to grow quickly;
pierced by invisibility.
Such earthenware, warm soil,
intimate blues.
Escaping the self, upon the morning
thought, made into a priestly mantis.
The burden is the non-existence.
Each second morphs into a notion—the
ceiling is dusty—the vacuum can’t reach.
Sentiments grow and rust, and the kettle
is raw steel.
The balloon deflates slowly;
moments lend but never come to closure; hearts are complicated.
Some souls are fiery. We dare not
slake them. We learn to dance around the fire.
Jogging as we fly, walking upon
clouds, the skies are symbols.
By an eastern desert, around a
campfire, planting scientific emotions.
Another impermanent fiasco,
searching as we do, maybe the dew smiles.
