It’s a matter of perspective, irrespective
of the truth, whether clockwise
flow of time, lies,
or a shade darker of blue.
The sun could rise below the earth with-
out it being south,
and voices make themselves heard
in the absence of a mouth.
Trading what we are for dreams
of what could one day be,
selves transform the body,
freely bound by you and me.
Wouldn’t it all be so convenient
if everything worked like a storybook plot.
We could line up in pages and paragraphs,
fates guaranteed with the place of an ink blot.
Our covers yield titular premonition
as we entwine to a single thread,
and through the exposition, we both know
there’s only one direction we can head.
The action builds to a rending climax,
and suddenly it is do or die,
but as we rush through these final pages,
we find emptiness and hide.
I feel figmentary, a roaming ghost
imagined but not yet thought of
as real, as solid, as a part of reality
as something complete and smoothed
down at the edges, sharp corners balanced with curves,
bone with flesh, blood with splintered veins.
Not numbness but obliteration,
a whole new plain of non-existence
made of wisps, traces, a true essence
such a morphling concept, a form without line
yet clear delineation, a breeze without motion of air.
I am, you are, it is.
I had a dream about you - no not that kind
of dream, in fact we only talked until
your car went rolling down a hill
I dashed ahead and stood in front
and tried to slow it with a grunt before
it hit the cement wall
but I was not enough at all, and
seeing me stuck in between
you jumped inside and made breaks scream
then our eyes met and we both laughed
and I woke up happy, but
late for work.
Expect the unexpected, but I couldn’t foresee this,
botched on emptied stomachs and presumptions gone amiss
a broken leaf tossed out upon the madness of the wind
that hardly had been grounded before it was lost again.
I came, because, when last we met, I felt that I was free
I came since seeing you seemed to renew something in me
but all the same I came without holding to fantasy,
determined to withhold myself from what could never be.
They say each single snowflake is something that is unique
drifting through the northern sky and unable to speak,
but when the time and distance can be melted into drink
the winds that blow through seasons bear more likeness than you think.
A pale blue wind blows from the northeast
stepping with innocent frost.
“You’ll never manage to hold me,” it breathes,
“but maybe not everything’s lost.”
Lungs filling up with the chill azure air,
first breath thats been taken in years.
Crystals coalesce into sapphire eyes,
aquamarine flowing like tears.
This was a chance collision, naked atoms sparking life
an energy that freed me without ever knowing why
lacks intention, you’re in tension with a whole and newfound self
don’t fear the action of reaction, falling down away so high
I just don’t know, don’t know why.
After this time write blonde revisions in the empty snow
imagining the other, self, I can’t, I let it go
the dream the dreamer, you will never let me be
its like you came back just to prove that I could not be me
have to leave, but but have to take you with me.
There she is, the object
of a thousand days’ sleep loss,
dreaming of the never now made real.
There she is, the doubt -
the fear the madness that took hold,
free though there be no known facts revealed.
There she is the memory
of reconciled self
others I had long forgotten, too.
There she is, delusion
this is not a new beginning,
just elipsi on an old beginning’s end.
