This we have now,
is not imagination
but a sobering dose of reality
a dove that unfolds around it’s nest
no longer guarding youthful images,
or dreaming of migration
no it’s neither grief nor joy
but a long pause
riveting through the tapestry
woven across dimensions
not a judging state, not an elation nor sadness
this we have now is
life searching for itself
a song in the making.
let it be
carefree images
dwindle, reverberate, laugh uncontrollably
and vanish
and no matter how my mind tries to unearth, turn,
and absorb the windy roads I once dug within me, my heart refuses to walk
it smiles with eyes elsewhere
assured of it’s elsewhere
and perfumed by it’s own
existence.
dissipating blots of hate
seem to erase, write, and procreate
on my tired body
falling into questions of where clarity is?
that white that makes all vanish
that reverberation that extracts all true essence
from the dense noise
rising within
mohagany, blue sky, lush greenery
I wonder
as I exude my burning fumes
breathe in, and ride
gliding in successions of here,
fear, hunger, and then exahustion.
