walls
crawl up ceiling high. petals are made of paper. soil is moist for digging. in
loving your non-smile, i fell into our non-attraction, our admiration—for dreams
spliced, or carnivals fretting, the clown in a rose—as sprouting from an ocean.
theretofore,
metaphors become prisons, similes become keys, a poet will bail herself out—of time,
existence in waves, uncured, asking for clarity.
by a
rusted mirror, needing buttress, supports main-force, internal; an aesthetic
antique, a fierce vocabulary, a verbose future, most robust;
the
pigeons with pinions, minds with parachutes, beauty with fury, it depends on
its own solutions.
to
strum a guitar—is to feel existence—where souls thrum through skies; such
perfect wings, sunshine dance and observation, the meadows are violin cadence.
made
many mistakes, seams unthreaded, fiber dissolved, excellence gasping for
breath. to appreciate the effort into the perfection straying into
nonexistence. it will be another celebrated, honored, brought forth for all to
envy.
