Miniscule orbs illuminated in subtle glows
Float towards cloudless cerulean skies
As plum blossom petals loftily distract her zigzagging eyes
In absorbing trances of mesmerizing perspectival glances.
Steadily, she places her hands on the hilt,
Bracing her legs to make the next leap
In the labyrinthine curves of tilted mounds
Where mice would swerve and sulk past her feet.
She pauses, images of misstepped darkness
Blinds in olive, sorrowfully fading inside
Abysmal medicinal remedies of impossibilities
Successionally staring in rotations, blankly.
In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.
I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted
Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?
Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
In each of those misstroked hatchings.
But it was.
You’re over thinking it
Or is it
The others thoughtlessness
Matched against yours.
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
Or is it all
Beating vacuumed chambers
Desensitised to the feeling
From clotted valves
To those words of mist.
Dispersed at miniature shores
And miniscule mountain tops.
Betwixt atomic regions
None the wiser,
Fail to consider