He sat ever so tearfully,
Perched against one of the now forgotten
Breathtaking replicas of the Van Aken stone fruit tree,
That were made to be monstrously perfect at the seams
By the sometimes ignored horticulture drones
That thought solely of their survival
When they built them, hidden, slowly in thinning groves
Where robotics moved in furious motions.
He wrote about how infuriating it had been
Patiently searching through misleading documents,
How, at times, they were just a pile of stupid fucking lies
While the others had claimed to understand
How taxing it must have been
But never did shit about it.
What was the point in speaking
When they don’t want to listen.
Within the murky amniotic black
Fluid airs swayed; sort of like lights
Refracted through disturbed liquids
Reflected onto a surface,
They met on the deserted promenade
Lined with stony rosette bushes
Shaking in the eldritch wind,
Never really knowing
How one felt
While the other
Knew full well.
Where figurations suddenly appeared
Just as quickly as they’d shone,
Bursts of warmth along with them.
But up, up, one flew, with the highest of hopes
Towards such fleeting stardust iterations,
When they assuredly grew too close
To glorifications in the heavens
Where the lesser, they saw
Nothing had been
Tauntingly, as an immortal wraith met its
Younger phase via the Time Travel Tree
Underneath underground tunnels, mines
Raucously rumbled from mine carts rumbling
Sordidly, then ran through its sordid
Wavering configuration, confounded by
The aberrant losses in future’s gestations.
Garnered abhorrences bottled up inside vibrant
Renaissance inspired crystalline decanters with stoppers,
Sardonically refused to minimize the flow of toxins, where
Sluices were built to protect, prevent, and withhold repetitive disasters.
At the top of a steeple she gazes
Wearily at barren branches
Where countless clusters
Of a winged type species
Often rested up upon
A single tree
As their precious silhouettes contrasted
In front of the illuminated smog filled sky;
A pale and salmon shaded purple light,
Where blood orange, magenta sun flares
Were dramatized and seizingly acted
As a beacon, just barely blaring urgently
Within the corner of her eye.
“Do you think,
As much as it’s improbable,
It could be possible
They could all drop
All at the same time?
Do you think maybe
Or would, come out smoothly
In piles of chalky lines,
Or linger in free framed existence,
Or maybe the consistency would be
Of the liquefied types that seem to
Always sassily leave traces behind,
Or maybe they would be
Of a harder concentrated form
As it happens to me during those difficult times
Gollans birthed from dripping ices, supposedly
Shared taken homogeneous soliloquies; humoured, their lips
Parted, their eyes wide, wondrous,
For placated assurances in nature’s medleys within
Provenances knotted as reciprocalities, likings
Scuttled into ubiquities, insouciant imperfections
Transformed to obsolescence in granular subsistences
Within blossoming presciences largely as quivering
Novelties acutely ticked unto themselves.
They missed star fires on the macro
Within bursts of micro universes
Consisting of replicated finite matters
Within quantum foams
When photons traversed at variances
Within moments of relative brevity.
Nebulous billows emanating
Pretend particles of heat
Directly to the fabrics’ heart
Where phantoms ruminated about
The duration of momentary relief
Spread across their faces and
The imminent sick yearning
Without the qualitative data
Necessary to compute
The minutiae of the gravity
From foreboding moons.
Yarns in kilometric lengths hung laundry that could
Slightly touch the shoulder.
Ostensibly, the remainders of lovely memoirs at
Uranus froze. So arctic foxes stopped to tow and
Rub their tongues on the ices that
Wouldn’t let up until told to do so, for the
Lords; their wants and needs, amongst a variety of things.
Recipients that didn’t know the
When they fell from the butte
Until that moment, then, just as such.