The Nonsensical

You’re over thinking it
Or is it
The others thoughtlessness
Matched against yours.

Catch phrases;
Words aligned
For a long standing joke.
But the origin?
What do those words mean?
Is that a fragment of their hidden ideology
Or is it mindless drivel that can be disregarded
As empty words
From empty vessels.

Or are you over thinking it
Are you the one that needs to stop
Because the nonsensical
Must exist
Or is it all
With reason.

Circumferential

Fictitious soap bubbles
Travel in innocuous
Elliptical orbits
Hosting homeostasis
Of love’s statistics
Labeled as magic;
Layers of collected
Dust and grime
Thinly coat and veil,
Covering the mysteries
Of incomprehensible interactions
Of misconceived utterances
Of deciphering sensibilities
Of those intuitively deemed
Attractive.

Is it romantic,
Or is it curiosity,
Fueled by
Semantics;
Beauty;
Is passion’s ending,
In the loss of interest.

What of general
Secondary
Romances.

Pointed Spears

What were the chances.
I thought them high;
High enough to
Search through monuments
Without a map to guide,
Building babbling towers
Towards the heavens,
Wading in waterfall fountains
Of penniless coin tosses

Or was that chance
Worth all this.

But doubt,
Friend or foe,
I can’t seem to tell.

But love
We know.

Wavering heart entrances,
Shields in steadfast motion;
Barricades of rhythmic paces;
Steadily we march,
After bypassing defenses
Overtly dressed
In bare nakedness
In lines of verses
With spears pointed
At those with chances.

Twinkles

Discounted meteor showers;
Sightings sorely missed in time lapses
Due to restricted circumstances.

Fickle shutter speeds
Opening and closing;
Intentions in aperatures of
Distorted isometric patterns.
Adversity’s worthiness
In illusions of craters by asteroid
Impacts of miscalculated velocities
For actual disintergrating deterioration
Of meteoric debris.

How I wonder,
How many glowing trails
Sparkled and fell, and their locations,
And how they may have never
Existed
At all.

Music Exists

Modulations of variant frequencies
In cellular flesh matter proportions
In questionable allocations;
Of the soul’s displacement,
Or the mind’s location,
To the point of disdain,
In listening to vain chatter
Of words discerned
Or lost in the ether.

Especially when
Music
Or information
Exists
As an alternative.

Express Stops

Notices posted on pages;
Barely perceived train delays
Of misconceptions made
In ticks until effaced
By the days passing,
At a snails pace,
Encroaching the date
Of planned service changes
Of bypassing local stations.
Notifications, given months prior,
Ushered within the undetectable
Connections of tinted hints,
From branded jigsaw pieces,
Conducted into those
That appear to be
Neat alignments.

A conclave;
Contemplating;
What is to normals:
The unforeseeable;
Future pavements
Of grand galactic schemes
Of disclosed endeavoured minds.

Straight Through Most

There comes moments
When every current doesn’t matter,
When truth extends its atoms
Across the racing expanse,
Where divisions of perception
Suddenly become united.

I stand below
Waterfalls encircling
On a tiny hovering island
Inside a bottomless space,
Trying to peer over
From far below the horizon
To catch senses of our home
On a disturbing distant land,

But instead, I’m catching
The wind furiously blowing,
The sound of thunderous flow,
The darkness underneath,
Of the cost of gravity
Weighed heavily.